The Other Hermione
by Vasilisa23
Summary: Second of a series. In one life, Hermione Granger went back in time to save her future. When the other Hermione begins to find evidence of an adventure that has been a secret for decades, the world will face the consequences.T/Hr D/
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes—I'll thank the reviewers to my final chapter here. Hope everyone found the sequel easily. Meia-Noite—very spot on criticism, thank you. When I was reading my chapters over again I was actually embarrassed at all the typos and bad grammar—I'm not typically so careless but because this is fanfiction I just don't work too hard. This is just a bit of fun for me. Detail is a hard thing for me—I use it to slow down the pace if I think it's necessary but the detail is often unnecessary and probably one of my big faults is not cutting down on the unnecessary info, which I've tried to do in this first chapter. I hope to God this story will be short. SailorHecate, thank you for being here for so long, until the very end! I can promise my readers now without any artifice that this ending will be happy. Originally I was never going to write a sequel, you know, but a lot of things that came up in Rowena's story ended up sort of breeding into ideas and I realized I could have a sort-of-continuation. Imagine if I'd just left you with that pile of sadness? Blindfaithoperadiva—I'm so glad you didn't guess about Dumbledore. I was hoping that I wasn't hitting people over the head with the bloody lemondrops. I know, hideous, right? Ankoku Dezai—fan of Dexter? All the D's! Don't be mad. Tom will come back soon. In the meantime, enjoy your Draco biscuit.

Ideally, new readers should be able to read this without having read the previous story. Please Enjoy, and please review!

.1.

The Impcap Wing

It was Easter at the Burrow. Bill and Fleur were there, as were Ginny and Harry. The twins were due in the afternoon, Charlie, Percy and Penelope in the evening. She and Ron were to spend the night in the living room, Ron ostracized from his own room by Percy and Penelope. And there were also Victoire and Prudence, who were violent enemies. This morning Prudence had upset Victoire's cup of tea into her lap, and Hermione was sure it wasn't an accident. Prudence was a great favorite of her uncles, to Percy's horror and Penelope's amusement.

The kitchen was full of the smell of cooking—Molly hadn't sat down for the past half hour. Ron had already left for the Ministry with his father, and Harry soon after. Ginny was sleeping in after a brutal practice with the Cannons. There was a puff of smoke in the fireplace, and Hermione turned to see Terry Boot's head in the fireplace. "Terry," she greeted him.

"Sorry to interrupt your brekky, but we've just got a case in."

"No problem," said Hermione, draining the dregs of her coffee. "I'll be at St. Mungo's in a quarter hour—sorry, Mrs. Weasely." Duty called, and Hermione was glad to get away after Victoire retaliated by magically turning Prudence's hair blue—a plan that backfired when Prudence decided she loved it.

.((0)).

Hermione had surprised everyone when she had decided to go to muggle university as well as a magical one; she pursued courses at Oxford as well as Albion Isles University. After earning degrees in neurology, computer engineering, arithmancy, and mediwizardry, and a subsequent nervous collapse, she had begun to establish the field of Neuromagicology with Padma Patil and Terry Boot.

This was when Neuromagicology was just something she speculated about with Padma and Terry. After graduation (Hermione graduated one and a half years behind Padma and Terry, in a state of nervous exhaustion), the three of them kept to their weekly coffee chats. Padma was employed in St. Mungo's medical research ward, specializing in the psychometry, and Terry was in the Department of Mysteries, in the brain room. That part of the Department of Mysteries was no longer very mysterious to Padma or Hermione. Terry was notoriously closemouthed about his job to everyone else. With Padma and Hermione, however, their shared interest in the human brain and its mental activities broke his vows for him. All of them worked on independent projects, some of them shared between them, and they worked much better as a team the more they knew of each other's fields.

The Telebrain, Hermione's brainchild, was the first thing to come of her studies. It stored data, was capable of instantaneous communication without the necessity of a floo, played music and and wizarding photographs—basically it was a wizarding computer. Only, it wasn't a completely magical entity—it could solve muggle maths problems as well as arithmantic equations, was equally capable of searching for a muggle author as a wizard one, and had muggle music and television stored on it as well.

Within a year nearly every home had one—only those prejudiced entirely against the muggle world refused to partake in the pleasure. Harry Potter, son of a muggleborn woman and raised in a muggle home, was the most famous wizard in the world. The Dark Lord's time was over, and wizards were as ready as they ever had been to accept not just muggleborns, but what the muggle world had to offer. Muggle music was an absolute craze among Hogwarts students, Hermione knew.

The success of the Telebrain funded their original research—the three bought a flat in Bath and spent a year establishing the groundwork. Then they managed to open it up as a subfield at Albion, with each of them sharing teaching duties. After a year they had a new research lab at St. Mungo's, the Impcap wing. Terry remained at the Department of Mysteries for half the week; now, he only taught on Saturdays.

The soothing, immaculate white corridors of St. Mungo's dictated her somewhat roundabout trip to the Impcap Wing. The Neuromagical Equivalence Research and Development laboratory (Ron had laughed until he shed tears upon hearing the anagram) was St. Mungo's latest addition. It was fundamental not only in studying the brains of wizards, but the brains of magical creatures, which had been the end goal of all Hermione's research.

At about the same time as the Impcap Wing came to be, Hermione had founded a Ministry lobbying group with Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, the Creature Rights for All Project (Ron had long since forbidden her naming rights of their unborn children). After Hermione had discovered that Luna was an unexpected treasure trove of information concerning house elves, she finally found someone as driven as she was concerning house elf rights. Luna had apparently always been keen on going into Magical Law, and became SPEW's strongest supporter. She let Hermione know about a provision of a bill being passed through the Department of Magical Creatures, which would ensure a house elve's freedom if he or she were to ask for it.

Neville had originally joined SPEW in order to please Hermione and pay her back for all the academic help she had given him over the years. Neville enjoyed had a much-improved reputation in his grandmother's eyes due to a prestigious apprenticeship with the world-renowned Dr. Cabbage, and had talked to his grandmother about the bill at Hermione's urging. Mrs. Longbottom in turn put a word in Griselda Marchbank's ear, and the bill was passed. Of course, as Ron said, it probably passed because no house elf in its right mind would ask for its freedom. Being presented with clothes was a high insult. Still, it was a victory—one she achieved her second year into University Studies. That was the birth of the Creature Rights for All Project.

Five years later, they passed the Werewolf Privacy Act, which ensured that werewolves had a right not to disclose their status to the magical world, and Hermione, Padma, and Terry had begun to study the brains of magical creatures. The problem with the magical world was that they refused to acknowledge that magical creatures were the same as wizards. None of the studies of magical creatures stressed their similarity to wizards. Neuromagicology was exactly the field Hermione could use to prove that wizards and sentient magical creatures were more alike than different—and creatures similar to wizards deserved similar rights.

Neuromagicology had been the subject of much derision when the Impcap Wing was open—the Hospital wasn't as tolerant of new and liberal thought as Albion Isles University was. In the first year of the lab, it had been derided inside and outside of St. Mungo's, and she had made her circuitous daily trip to the lab ignoring snickers from the staff. Then she and Padma Patil and Terry Boot had discovered the cure to Crucio-induced madness. No one could deny the benefits of neuromagicology, and the studies of magical creatures and muggles began to gain a certain cachet among liberal wizards society. Now it was a radical field whose studies were frequently reported on in the newspapers all over the Continent. Neville considered himself well-paid for his support of C.R.A.P., and his grandmother, upon regaining her children, had begun to actively campaign for the project.

"How are things in your CRAP organization?" asked Terry without looking up from his papers as she walked into the opaque-windowed office. His dark hair spilled over his face but didn't hide his slight smile.

"C-R-A-P, thank you," said Hermione primly. It was a ritual exchange between them. Terry was the only one who ever managed to arrive at the lab before her. It was 5:30, and the Tube, which Terry normally used, only started at 5:00. But then, there was the floo.

"You sound like an adult using dirty language to a child."

"That's because I am," she replied with a smile.

"Howzit with you?"

"Good."

"He propose yet?"

"Merlin, no. I don't have time for the next two years."

"You have your life planned out to the millimeter."

"I certainly do. He's going to propose to me in Paris at the Sacre Coeur looking at the Eiffel tower at night on Christmas Eve in 2005. I'll have three months to plan the wedding—well, when I'm not working. But everyone will know the date. We're getting married on my birthday."

Terry turned up from his paperwork at last and stared at her.

Hermione grinned. "Well, that's what we decided last night. This way he can't screw it up as easily."

"You're mad."

"I'm brilliant."

"Anyway, he'll find some way to screw it up. He's Ron."

"Well, yes, I agree. But at least this limits his capacity for destruction. I told him to look at it like a wizard chess tournament. He doesn't muck that up."

"Tokohiru Goto, two years ago. Overcome but not forgotten."

Hermione sneered at him. "Ron's still the wizard chess world champion _now_." She looked over to the door of the lodger's rooms, where patients and volunteers stayed during their treatments and tests. "How's Yrllyl?"

"We're sequencing her components, but it's shaping up to be the same as the first five." They had already established that muggles, wizards, centaurs, vampires, and werewolves had essentially the same neuromagical components. They were testing a house elf and a mermaid presently. The goblins had been recalcitrant. It seemed unicorns had brains more analogous to animal consciousnesses—they hadn't been able to study a dragon yet. Hermione had been planning to talk to Charlie about it when he arrived at the Burrow.

Yrllyl, the mermaid, was almost finished with her sequencing. She was learning English while she volunteered for testing, and Terry provided her with the courses for free. She had to speak through water gear to be understood, but she was already communicating admirably. She had diplomatic ambitions, and Hermione had mentally bookmarked her for help with C.R.A.P.'s lobbying.

"One more day, tops. And we're in the middle of gerunds."

"Hmm. I'll be sorry to lose her."

"I told her she can come in for lessons any time she likes."

"Good."

"So—the case I called you in about," said Terry.

"I hope it's exciting."

"Alistaire Avery, got burnt by a dragon. In England."

"That's impossible."

"We checked his wand. No apparition in the last two days, no side-alongs, no record of any significant magical activity whatsoever. Mostly potion work. He got half his face burnt off, the Dai Llewellyn ward barely knows what to do with him."

"I know for a fact they've dealt with dragon burns before—we're neuomagicologists, not mediwizards."

"It's not that. He said the dragon was sentient. It spoke English to him. He was very insistent about it."

"Are they sure the burns originated from a dragon? It could have been an illusion."

"Standard greenish tinge."

"Well, people can be shocked into hallucinating things. Those burns give you a fever pretty quickly. Was he wearing dragon hide?"

"No. His last recorded spell was a Protego."

"Good Protego."

"No kidding. His friends say the dragon hit him head on."

"Who are his friends?"

"Carissa Kinderkindle, his brother Julian, and Draco Malfoy."

"Merlin preserve us," sighed Hermione.

"Do you think it might be possible? A sentient dragon? It would be amazing for the research."

Hermione thought for a long moment. "I know what Luna would say."

"What would you say?"

"I'll have to read some histories on dragons—there are stories about talking dragons, but they're just that. Do the usual scans, see if there's any unusual trends in his brain, or traces of magical tampering."

"It's worth a try, isn't it?"

Hermione smiled. "You really think we've got a talking dragon?"

Terry just smiled. "I'd really like to think we've got a talking dragon."

Any excuse to go back to the Hogwarts Library was a good one. "O.K. Is the floo to the Headmistress's office open?"

"Yeah. I think she's up."

"You already asked her, didn't you?"

"Of course. And she asked Hagrid. I'd think if anyone would know—"

"Yes, Hagrid of course. Charlie of course. The library of course."

"Then off to the library with you," Terry pronounced.

Hermione shifted. "Did you already alert the Department of Magical Creatures about the dragon?"

"Yes, I'm on top of everything, as usual."

"Bless."

"Didn't sneeze."

"An Avery, hmm? And friends with Draco? Why don't I have any idea who Allistaire Avery is?" asked Hermione.

"He and his brother were at Beauxbatons."

"No wonder. All I know from there are the girls who fart butterflies."

Terry snickered. "He was at the Triwizard Tournament. Padma remembers his brother very well." He wiggled his eyebrows.

Hermione stood. "I'm off. Tell Padma to prepare the blood tests from Dobby."

She wound round the corridor impatiently, huffing under her breath if a patient blocked her path. Her shoes clicked quickly, and she rolled her eyes at the entire lengthy process of walking. She was a witch, after all, and had taken to apparating whenever she was in a hurry. Of course, she couldn't do it in the muggle world, which had made Oxford a sometimes vexing experience, but there were only three places in the wizarding world which she couldn't use this shortcut in: St. Mungo's, the Ministry, and Hogwarts.

She groaned when she reached reception and saw a familiar blond head bent over the desk. She tried to skirt past him without him seeing her, but luck, bad luck specifically, made him lift his head at the exact time she was passing. He smirked. It was inevitable, the smirking, some kind of horrible obsessive-compulsive tic.

"Granger. I hear you've got one of my friends under your claw. His mother will be so happy to hear he's under the care of a mudblood who likes to cut people's heads open."

"Malfoy. This is the third time I've seen you this week. I hope this isn't intentional. I don't have any time available to be stalked."

"Oh, hilarious, Granger. You're very droll. I'm sure Weasely tells himself it makes up for your looks, although to be fair I can't think of anyone else who would take him. Really, the thought of you two breeding. I fear for the child that feels the combined effects of your and Weasely's hair." Draco gave a dramatic shiver.

"It's so sad that you feel the need to hide your true feelings with negative remarks. Fear not, I can take no offense when your affection is written so clearly in your eyes." Hermione smiled brightly and gave him a little wave before she departed. Draco offered no final rebuttal, but she cringed inwardly at the thought of seeing him when she returned to the hospital. She already saw enough of him thanks to his working at the Ministry, carrying on in his father's footsteps of unctuous politicking.

She carried on to the mezzanine entrance, where the main fireplaces were. Then she took a handful of powder, eyed it critically, threw it and said, "Hogwarts." She was careful to enunciate.

.((0)).

After Harry Potter had returned to Hogwarts after a week of captivity, a statue had been erected outside of the Hogwart's entrance, positioned as if to greet the passing students. The entire statue was purple. Dumbledore was broadly smiling, as if nothing was wrong, as if he hadn't been killed by Voldemort, his body lying next to the body of his nemesis—who when discovered was in the form of a young man. Some speculated that whatever had kept it immortal reduced him, in death, to the age he had been when he first used it. Harry had never told anyone where he had been, or how he had escaped, or how Dumbledore and Voldemort came to their deaths. If pressed, he would insist that he himself didn't know what had happened. Hermione didn't believe him—no one did, and everyone was convinced it was he who had killed Lord Voldemort, but she never pressed him for answers, as she once might have.

The night Harry returned, she had been in the Gryffindor common room, almost asleep in a pile of books on locator spells. Ron had just gone up to bed. Harry came into the room without any commotion, as though this were any night where he'd taken it into his head to prowl the corridors alone. Hermione's heart leapt in her chest at the sight of him. She'd bolted out of her chair and rushed to Harry, her arms extended and her eyes already starting to tear up. But the look in his face stopped her. He was looking at her as if he was looking at a ghost. Then he sat down, put his head in his hands, and started to sob.

Hermione hadn't asked him anything then, and had never asked him anything afterwards. All he ever said to anyone about it was that Voldemort killed Dumbledore and that Dumbledore had killed Voldemort (an this only to herself and Ron), but he refused to say where he had been, or how the circumstances had arisen in the first place. And ever since that night, he and Hermione had shared something unspoken, a secret that hung between them, a secret that Hermione was afraid to know. Sometimes she would catch him looking at her, and watch him watching until he turned away. They spoke less to each other but seemed to understand each other more—it was a trend that had already begun when Hermione's parents had died and she killed Bellatrix LeStrange. Her and Harry's changed bond was such that Ron grew jealous several times in the beginning of his and Hermione's relationship.

Hermione looked outside Professor McGonnagal's window at the whimsical statue of Dumbledore. She wondered if she would ever know what was behind those looks and glances. A part of her was desperate to know, while another part forbade it, as it had once forbidden not only Harry, but also herself, to ponder the connection between his and Voldemort's minds.

"A pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger."

"Than you, Professor McGonnagal," said Hermione, and launched straight into business. "Have you heard of this business of a dragon loose in England?"

"No," replied the taller woman, her eyebrows nigh disappearing into her hairline.

"One that talks, no less."

"Oh?" said Professor McGonnagal, her eyebrows venturing no lower.

"We have a patient at St. Mungo's. He does have dragon burns, but no other witnesses to corroborate his story. Have you ever heard of talking dragons—apocryphal tales?"

Professor McGonnagal sat down. "Well, yes. In very old wizarding tales there are sentient dragons. The Tale of the Dragon and Three Riddles, for instance."

"I've never heard of it."

"It's a child's tale. There's a section on dragon lore in the library, I recall."

"Yes, I know where it is, although it's not the place I've explored the most thoroughly. Well, thank you, Professor. I'll have a look, then."

"Miss Granger," said Professor McGonnagal. "You have considered that your patient might be mad—or that he might be hallucinating?"

"Yes, of course. Terry's checking on it right this instant."

"Very well. Feel free to stop in for a spot of tea after your research."

.((0)).

Hermione paced slowly down the section, wondering where to start. She'd have to cross-reference the books—the nonfiction ones as well might have accounts of dragons speaking. As mad an idea as a speaking dragon was, it was possible. The vast majority of dragons lived in the polar parts of the world, their population unexplored by wizard or man. It was the same with Giants and Trolls—they preferred fairly uninhabitable landscape. And there had been a time when Giants were believed incapable of speech. Despite wracking her brains since first hearing of the case, Hermione could think of nothing, besides stories or heresay that spoke of an intelligent dragon.

The entire idea fell almost into cryptozoology, Luna's specialty. Hermione had never, in all her work for SPEW and CRAP, ventured even an inch within Luna's specialty. Hermione had made her peace with Luna's way of thinking and the fact that it sometimes yielded improbable truths, but she had left Luna to it. She sighed when she realized that Padma would call Luna as soon as she heard the story. The only thing Hermione could ever discover Padma and Parvati to share was a ready belief in shaky areas of magic. For Parvati it was Divination. For Padma it was anything Luna had to say. To be fair, Luna had finally found a Crumple-horned Snorkack, as well as an Erumpet (which turned out not to have a horn), but Padma's belief had predated any proof.

Hermione stopped by a section devoted to dragon physiology and pulled out Bardell's definitive anatomy, half an idea in her head to explore its vocal tract. She knew from Charlie's accounts that dragons could make a sort of barking noise, that they keened when hungry and howled when angry. As she flipped through the pages, she felt a chill on the back of her neck. Her right hand went abruptly to the spot—there was a movement. A feeling like skin against her, cold skin, but only for a moment. Hermione turned. Her attention focused immediately on the bookshelf opposite her. It seemed as if the spaces in between the books were whispering. She walked closer to the books, telling herself that after all it was a magical library and it might be some peculiar property of the books.

One book seemed to stand out, and for no reason that she could discern. It wasn't peculiar, or individual. Just a dusty old book with a worn blue spine. Hermione picked it up and opened it, the strange sensations of a moment ago forgotten. She opened it to its title page. On it was scrawled a note:

"I know I won't get my memories back this time. I know they'll be watching me. I know it can't be me, anymore. So now I pass the duty on to someone else. I bid you, reader, if Tom Riddle still lives, he must be killed. If Hogwarts starts to change, if there are snakes in the walls and secret places opening up, if people start to die, look for him. See if he is there. Perhaps he is not Tom Riddle anymore. Whatever name he takes, he must not live."

In the same handwriting, to some distance but close enough to seem almost a continuation, was scrawled: "Mione Potter."

This was what caught her attention immediately. First—Potter. Harry came immediately to mind—maybe she'd found a book his grandmother or great-aunt used. But then there was the given name. Mione. That was what Ron called her. Hermione glared at the book again, thinking herself mistaken, the note might be recent, the name the result of some convolution in a student's head. After all, when Rita Skeeter wrote those wretched articles, the entire school was convinced she was dating Harry—maybe someone had written the name then.

But that explanation didn't make any sense, not with the note, which seemed to be written by the same person. Tom Riddle—not Lord Voldemort, as though the person didn't know any other name but Tom Riddle. That person would have had to have written the note very long ago. It was a conundrum, something very peculiar. Hermione remember the odd sensation that had preceeded the discovery. Maybe it was some trick—a very odd trick. Hermione tucked the book into her arm deciding to check it out after her library research was finished.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys. Man, I am a very careless and messy fic-poster. Two people I think mentioned the Complete status, and also! Also! D/Hr, not D/H. Oh what a difference one letter makes. Hope you're not too disappointed, The Good/Reformed Tom Lover. What was that awesome D/H story where Draco gets placed in Ravenclaw and has to wear glasses and dates Terry Boot and is hilarious? Someone remind me, please, I love that story. Aeddy Scots—thanks for the post review on Even the Stars can be Moved. Hope you enjoy the sequel. It's a good opportunity to go back and redo the Hermione/Tom tension. Petunia Patronus—I am so torn when I write between hurrying up and getting to the good stuff and putting in all the bricks my plot requires. Truly, I feel you. A lot of the stuff laid out in the last chapter, and Hermione's career in particular (and this dragon thing—it's not mere plot-filler, trust me), is actually very integral to the plot and the path that Hermione will take. The thing that these two stories have in common is I'm taking this normal, very competent but basically normal, level-headed, non-rule-breaking girl and putting her into situations where her inner bad-ass comes out. You know? Blindfaithoperadiva, you have encountered the perils of reading Time Travel fic. Mione Potter died in the last fic. Here we're dealing with Hermione Granger—in case any other readers were confused!

.((0)).

"Ron, that is the unsexiest thing I have seen all day."

"What?"

"You are aware that you're wearing nothing but the socks your mother knitted you?"

"So?"

"Three of them."

"Well, see, I was just going to—you know you're always saying I don't do anything romantic—I just didn't want to get cold. There." He looked at her plaintively. "They have hearts on them and everything."

Hermione folded her arms and glared at him severely. "Maybe we ought to talk about the term 'romantic'. And for that matter, 'sexually appealing'."

"Oh, come on! My mom's out at the greengrocer's and the house is empty for maybe twenty minutes."

"Oh, really? I could have sworn I smelt meat pies."

"Cooling on the counter."

"Right."

" Percy and Penelope will be here in an hour."

"Right. Honestly—that third sock!" she said, hurriedly kicking off her shoes.

"Cold—"

"It won't be. Merlin, Ron. I'm pretty aware of what it looks like by now." Ron grabbed her hand in the midst of unbuttoning her blouse and pulled her onto his lap.

"How was work?"

"Mmm—weird. I'll tell you about it later. You?"

"I've got to go check out a lead later on with Harry."

"The Albanian?"

"Yeah—you should always be naked. Have I ever told you that?"

Hermione smiled despite herself. "Well, once we find a flat—"

"Yes, very good incentive. Your—em, knickers."

"Right. Hold on." She cupped Ron's chin and kissed him. "You taste like chocolate."

"Mmm, chocolate frogs."

"Licorice shoelaces too?"

Ron studied her for a minute. "You're _weird_. You know _everything_."

Hermione smiled cheekily at him. "Do you know what that means? If I know everything, everything I say is right. So you can't disagree with anything I say. And by the same token, that means you should do everything I say."

"No, Hermione, I will not be your brain-slave."

"Pity." Ron pressed his lips to her neck and pulled her closer to him, and she pushed him onto his back and wrapped her arms around his neck. They kissed in a good-natured way and made love in their familiar fashion, their mouths meeting almost all the time. Hermione had nothing to compare it to, and neither did Ron, and she was happy it was that way. They were each other's yardstick. It made her life very neat, to have a sensible, comfortable love you could trust to last. Ron had been there since she was a child. It made sense to have him for her whole life. Hermione had been lucky enough to not to have experienced any sort of grand passion that was doomed to fall short of expectations.

They dressed as soon as they were finished. "So what's the weird thing you'll tell me about later?" asked Ron.

It took Hermione a moment to parse the sentence. "Oh—I don't know what it is, but I found some writing on this book-- it was about Tom Riddle. A warning." Hermione picked up her satchel and pulled the dull blue volume out. "Here, have a look at it," she said.

"What page?"

"The title page."

Ron gazed at it and frowned for a moment. "Just looks like one of Riddle's mates had him sussed out. We could have used this second year, but it looks like it was written a long time ago." He looked at it for a moment longer. Hermione waited for a moment longer to ask him.

"What about the name?"

"Yeah. That's really strange. Mione Potter." He shook his head. "It's really strange. I can't imagine—I mean, there's no such person as Mione Potter, it would be easy enough to ask Harry to check it out to be sure, but—do you think it has something to do with you?"

"I don't know. Yes, actually. I sort of do."

Ron closed the book. "I'll take it to the Ministry tomorrow, have the writing analyzed for its wand signature."

"Oh, you're gorgeous."

"I know," he said, sneaking a last kiss before he opened the door to his bedroom. You'll just have to find a way to repay me."

"Haven't I just done that?"

.((0)).

Hermione decided to pay the Impcap wing a visit after dinner. Ron and Harry were gone off to follow their lead, and Ginny was playing with Prudence outside. Having discovered Prudence liked Quidditch, she'd vowed not to neglect her education the way her idiot brothers had neglected her own. Inside, Fleur and Victoire were annoying Hermione with discussion of dress gowns, which they insisted on having her opinion about. Hermione was curious about the results of the tests Terry had done on the Silversmith boy, and decided it was a good excuse to visit the wing.

For the past month or so Hermione had been bored. The Telebrain had taken a toll on her creative powers—Hermione hadn't had any inventive ideas lately, whereas she'd nearly drowned in them during her university years and those immediately following. She was used to spending her entire day in laboratories and classrooms and libraries, and as nice as it was to be able to spend time with people, she often itched to be in her lab. It felt more home to her than her tiny flat in London.

Terry wasn't in the lab when she went; Padma had replaced him. When Hermione reached the Impcap Wing she found that the room occupied that morning by Yryll now held the patient. White curtains had been transfigured from thin air to afford him some privacy—the room hadn't held an actually ailing person until now. The Impcap Wing dealt mostly with research subjects.

Padma was deeply engrossed in discussion with someone behind the curtains. Someone else stood beside her, just outside the door—the patient's brother, Hermione presumed, since she didn't recognize him. The boy was very tall and very pale, with blue-black hair. He was listening intently to the partially obscured conversation.

"Well, there's only so much you can do about dragon burns—I assure you the Dai Lllewellyn ward has done absolutely everything in its power."

"I fail to understand why he's here instead of there. There's nothing wrong with his brain," came a voice, elderly and icily precise.

"Yes, I know—that's exactly why he's here, you see. This department has a special interest in—well, you know we are experts in Neuromagicology. We have a vested interest in magical psychology."

There was a pause. Hermione looked for the results of the test on Terry's desk, something that would be no easy feat considering the mess he'd left it in. "You have a vested interest in my grandson?"

"No. We have a vested interest in what he saw."

"You really believe he saw this-- talking dragon?"

"Grandmama, I promise you—" came a third voice. The patient.

"Well, Mrs. Silversmith," said Padma. "As you've pointed out, all our tests suggest no interference with or default with his neuromagicological make-up."

There was another pause, and an envelope flew through the crack underneath the entrance to the lab. Hermione picked up an MMRI scan—the Silversmith boy's.

The envelope unfolded itself into an approximation of a mouth and announced in a young woman's voice: "Mr. Blaise Zabini and Mr. Draco Malfoy request permission to visit the Impcap Wing."

"Permission granted," sighed Hermione. It would be hard enough to get any sort of work done with the boy's family in her lab, but it would be downright impossible with Malfoy. At least Zabini knew how to be polite.

"Who was that? I heard a voice," came the precise voice from behind the curtains.

"Oh, that's my colleague, Dr. Granger."

"Doctor? Aren't those what muggles have?"

"Oh, it's more on account of her PhDs than on account of her medical training, although she is a trained muggle neurologist."

"Yes, muggle qualifications do so assure me."

Hermione grimaced. She was glad Padma was here to talk to the boy's grandmother instead of her. With the promised advent of Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, it was looking like a better and better idea to find an alternative to the Impcap Wing.

"Did I hear Zabini, Julian?" asked the woman.

"Grandmama, it's only Blaise."

"You know how I dislike your association with that family."

"Yes, but I don't know why he'd here," replied the dark-haired brother.

Hermione did desperately want to have a look at the patient, at least to see the damage the burns had done. What kind of burns they were, if something other than a dragon could be responsible for them. Hermione found herself walking over in the midst of her thought, clipboard with a fresh paper and the patient's report in her hands. They only used clipboards in the Impcap Wing, which was silly, really. They were heaven-sent in terms of efficient paperwork, especially when compared to the scrolls the rest of the staff used.

Hermione skirted around the brother and made a direct approach for the sensory apparatuses recording the patient's vital data, ignoring Padma and the woman, a tall, very pale woman with nearly white hair and a narrow face. She noticed the patient, Allistaire, as she reached the organ moniter, which sent up a little projection of the boy's organs and nervous system. The boy was blond, and terribly pale, so that the burn which disfigured the left side of his face was more striking, the red of the burn almost blood-colored in comparison to his skin. It hadn't reached his eyes or his nose, but it pulled the corner of mouth into an unmistakable leer.

Behind her she heard Padma guiding his brother and grandmother out of the makeshift room. She watched the patient dispassionately as she checked his vitals, the damage to his chymical-thaumaturgical makeup, the damage to his nervous system and brain, a record of any and all disruptions that had occurred in the brain's chemical balance.

"That was a very good Protego indeed," said Hermione to the boy. "It's amazing how little damage was done, considering the impact."

"Are you telling me I should be happy?"

"That's your choice. The important thing to us is that you're telling us the truth. Where did you see the dragon, exactly?"

"Mabon, near Kent."

Hermione consulted her clipboard. "And you say it flew out of the Blue Forest?"

"Yes."

"And the dragon told you he was guarding the forest?"

"Yes. He said I was coming too close to it. It was a path I had never walked before, and the path became strange the nearer I got to the forest. And then the dragon came, but he was as tall as the trees. I couldn't understand where he came from. Then he breathed fire at me, almost before I could start running, and I cast the Protego. And when I looked up, it was gone."

"Huh. If I gave you a map of Mabon and the Blue Forest, could you point out to me the path you took?"

The boy frowned. "I think so. Yes." He looked at his hand. The skin was also very burned, the characteristic red with a greenish tinge at the corners. He rose it towards her. "Is there anything you can do about this?" He gestured towards his face. "Or this?"

"They're not so terrible. I have a friend whose nose was torn off by a werewolf. He's married to a quarter Veela girl."

"Bullshit. I know you're some kind of genius doctor and you can do all kinds of things wizard doctors can't or don't do."

"Well, there is plastic surgery. Skin grafts." She leaned in closer to examine his mouth. He flinched but permitted the intrusion. "Could possibly transfigure the muscle to—hold on—" she put up her wand, concentrating on the sudden solution that had presented itself. She drew out the scar tissue with a transmogrification spell to extend the contorted musculature of his face into an approximation of what it had been. She followed muscles and veins in from their healthy and restored what she could through transfiguration—transfiguration was of limited use in making dead tissue live. Within a few moments the corners of his mouth were of equal height, although the burn tissue remained. "There."

She handed him a mirror. Allistaire looked at his face warily.

"Don't like it?"

"It's better," he admitted.

"Dragon burns elude most magical treatment," she said by way of warning. "I can't say muggle medicine will be more effective. I'll bring in someone to do some skin grafts in a few days, and I'll have a look-see in Mabon."

"Thank you."

As Hermione turned she became aware of a somewhat heated discussion in the office foyer, which Padma seemed to be arbitrating. "I asked Blaise to come. He's a mediwizard specialized in magical creature mediwizardry. You may remember him from the Dai Llewellyn ward. We're going to try to determine what kind of dragon attacked your grandson based on the burn patterns and the description."

"I'll just go in," she heard Blaise say, and turned hurriedly to leave. She confronted both him and Draco Malfoy on her exit.

"Granger, again," said Malfoy. "This has got to stop."

"Then don't visit my lab."

"Hello, Hermione," said Blaise, and turned to Draco. "That's what manners look like." Draco rolled his eyes.

"Much appreciated," said Hermione.

"Is there anything I should know?"

"Yes. I repaired his mouth a bit, the muscle had contorted his mouth but I fixed the basic structure of it. So your evaluation should be based on the previous description of the facial burns."

"Very good. Already you've outdistanced the Dai Llewellyn ward."

"Just a bit of creative transfiguration."

"As long as you're not cutting him open and stapling him back together again," Draco contributed.

"That comes next," she said, nodded at them, and walked back through the lab.

"Is she serious? I can never tell if she's serious," she heard Draco say to Blaise as they walked into Allistaire's room.

Hermione laughed to herself and walked into the office foyer, where everyone was now seated. She gave Padma a wave. "I'm off," she said. She noticed a look pass the patient's grandmother's face. She could feel the woman's eyes on her and smiled self-consciously, already backing towards the lab. "Goodnight."

"You," said the woman, and Hermione looked at the woman for a moment. The woman was staring at her in open hatred. Padma was giving Hermione an apologetic look, and Hermione shrugged in her direction. She wasn't in the mood to deal with some anti-Muggle old devil who wanted to ban every innovative treatment available to them.

Instead, she turned and walked through the lab to the exit without another word. Perhaps she was delaying the inevitable, but she wanted more answers, and if they weren't to be found, then she wanted the Burrow. The lab might be home, but unwanted visitors rendered it uninhabitable.

She was in the Library. Hermione had a lot of dreams about the library, so there was nothing to worry about. If she tried to look at the books on the shelves, she couldn't make out the titles. That was normal, too, she knew from past experience. She knew this section of the library well. It was the Ancient History section, dating from the times before the International Secrecy Statute. She had often wondered what it would be like if the muggles weren't kept ignorant of the Wizarding World. She felt like it would put them on a bit more of an even playing field—it often seemed unfair. The position gave all the power to the wizards, and prevented muggles from defending themselves.

She ran her fingers along the spines, more than half of them familiar to her, the textures of their coverings partially remembered, their contents seen through an opaque glass. Hermione turned to her left. She went down the corridor of books, and this corridor was new. Or was it new? She could swear that this or that part of it was familiar to her, that she had surely inspected this patch of books—what subject were they, again? But more and more of it she did not recall, and wondered if was being reconstructed from her memories or constructed anew in a dream. She walked down the corridor and followed its turns. Left and left and left again. And then, as she paused on the maroon carpeting of the library floor, she could feel, palpably, that she was coming nearer to something important. She turned the corner.

The room she was in had five walls, the four larger ones converging in a partial diamond shape towards she one she had entered through. Each wall was a bookshelf, the character of each one peculiar. One was rustic, rusty brown, yellow and black showing in bands, another was poisonous looking, green and black. Another had hefty drawings, rolled-up maps. The last was blue and silver.

Hermione walked towards this one, felt drawn in a thin blue line in a thin white time and then she was there, her finger on a spine, pulling a book towards her, and then it was suddenly in her hand. She opened the page. "The Story Repeats". It occurred to her that she shouldn't be able to read words in a dream. And why did she know this was a dream? That had never happened before. She turned, book in her hand. She gasped in shock. There was a figure in a corner, huddled against the dark, thin volumes, himself dark, only his hands showing in the darkness, and they were white.

"We've only half-opened it, you know," came the voice, rich and deep and carved out of a complex mask.

"What do you mean?"

"The library, or course," said the figure, raising his face. He was young, not long out of boyhood. His face was pale and cold and handsome. Hermione felt she should know that face. "You should know who I am," said the boy, echoing her thoughts.

"Who are you?"

The boy stood. He was very tall. Although he was thin, he looked strong. His curly hair was brushed back from his forehead, and he was wearing Hogwarts robes. He was standing next to her. He took the book in her hand and exchanged it for a volume bound in dead black. "This one's already out," he said. "You can take it. It will tell you where to go."

Hermione looked up at him. His eyes were black, the pupil barely distinguished from the iris. Her own eyes were reflected in them. For a moment, they seemed gold. And then they were kissing on a golden bed. Just as suddenly, they weren't. The boy was still holding her book, and offering his. Hermione took it.

He was whispering in her ear, but she couldn't hear anything he was saying, and then he wasn't saying anything at all, and then he was gone, and she was alone in the library.

She was really alone in the library. This was real. This wasn't a dream. Hermione turned around. She was surrounded by the same four walls as in her dream. She faced them, one by one, and reached for her arm, and pinched it. It hurt. She looked in her hand. She had the black book the dark haired boy had given her. She stared at it. There was a puncture wound in the cover. She opened it. The pages were blank. Her heart started to pound. It couldn't be.

But Hermione was sure she was holding Tom Riddle's diary. She turned again to the room. It had been used. There were books piled on the desk. Upon closer inspection, Hermione saw that they were from the blue and silver shelf and the black and green shelf. Slytherin's and Ravenclaw's books. Although they were stacked in haphazard piles, and the chairs were pulled out of place as if from recent use, there was a thick coating of dust over everything. Hermione looked at the diary again, seized.

Had she been possessed? Was that boy—but of course he was. Tom Riddle's sixteen-year old self. She had never seen him before. Only Harry and Ginny had. She had to find them. She had to give the book to Harry and find out where it came from. As far as she knew, it should be at Malfoy Manor. The dark cover burned against her fingers, and she could swear that it was moving.

She had to restrain an impulse to tear open the diary and ask it who Mione Potter could possibly be. "It will tell you where to go," he had said. Where to go for what? But Hermione shook her head. This book had used Ginny once. Was it trying to use her? If so, it was doing very well. It knew how curious she could get. But she had managed to restrain her curiosity about Harry for the past six years.

He had kissed her. If she closed her eyes she could see gold, that bed, feel the warmth of a body that couldn't possibly be alive. Her cheeks flushed. Was it another trick? Give her something like this, that she couldn't possibly tell anyone about? Was this how it had kept Ginny from telling anyone?

Ginny. It wasn't Harry she should talk to. It was Ginny. She glared at the diary. "You won't get me," she whispered to it.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: I am an updating monster. These updates are just coming so fast! Anyways, the next chapter (not this one) be forewarned, is a chapter from the prequel to this story. I'm just including it for possible new readers and consistency. I'm sure you'll be able to tell which chapter by the time you finish this.

Llioness1120—Yes, If You've a Ready Mind. The glasses look! I think it's at Schnoogle, too. Freaking hilarious. One of the only fics I've read several times over. The Good/Reformed Tom lover, yes, some things get a bit more sorted out in this chapter. Some things don't. It's weird writing a mystery you and the readers already know the explanation of. Marisa1—yeah, I'm usually annoyed by the medical field thing. Mainly because it seems like such an underutilization of her powers to just be a mediwitch or something, you know? I usually like to think of her as an Auror or detective or something. But here I kind of took her whole claim in, I think Book 5, that maybe she'd go somewhere with her SPEW thing to heart. And neuromagicology would be the intelligent way of proving a magical creature's equality or whatever. You know, honestly I think the house elf thing was weird. Like, people that want to be slaves. I always thought JKR would reveal something crazy about them, since they're so powerful, like they'd done something awful and their powers had to be checked by enslavement. And Hermione's campaign for creature rights was always treated as a throwaway joke, despite how truly horrible wizards were to house elves and Remus and the goblins and stuff. So, anyway, I'm taking that whole thing a lot more seriously in this fic. Magical creatures are central to the plot. Blindfaithoperadiva—oh, Hermione is always wary. You remember how she was always holding the boys off and avoiding confrontations, the Dracoslap notwithstanding? TheCrescentMoonLover—yes, sorry about that completed status thing. Let's hope that it's a sign of things to come.

.((0)).

Hermione flooed to the Burrow from the fireplace at the Hogshead Inn. She'd managed to get out of Hogwarts unnoticed, walking to Hogsmeade, trying to remember the whole way how she could have gotten to the Hogwart's library. She remembered leaving St. Mungo's with a vague desire to go to Mabon immediately, even at that unearthly hour. She didn't remember anything else. In her hands were two books: one embossed in blue and silver, another one small, simple, and black. Hermione stepped deliberately out of the fireplace.

Mrs. Weaseley was in the kitchen washing up the dishes. Normally Hermione would help her, but she was absolutely consumed with what had happened, and needed to see Ron and Harry. "Evening, Mrs. Weaseley," she said a little bit breathlessly and headed for the door. A shriek from outside told her Ginny and Prudence were playing girls-only Quidditch.

"Hermione, dear, are you all right?"

"Yes, Yes, I'm fine. I think I'll just go off to bed."

"Well, if you need anything, just ask."

"Yes, thank you," Hermione offered behind her as she dashed for the staircase. She headed for Ginny's room first. Percy and Penelope were already in Ron's room, so if the boys were back they'd be in Ginny's room. She stopped at the door for long enough to hear the voices inside, and gratefully burst into the room. "Ron, Harry," she said. "Something weird is going on."

She stopped for a moment. Harry was cradling Ginny's stuffed Niffler, Fitzwilliam. Ron was wearing Ginny's bathrobe, which was fluffy and covered with winking stars. She laughed at the sight of them. "Sorry. No, really. It's serious. Here." She took out the diary.

This had an immediate effect on the boys. Harry stood up abruptly, dropping Fitzwilliam. He grabbed the diary from her hand. "This can't be."

"It is. I found it in the Hogwart's Library," she started.

Ron snorted. "Where else?"

"But I don't know how I got there. I was asleep, I was dreaming of the Library, and then I was there, but I don't remember anything before that. I was leaving St. Mungo's, and after that—nothing, not until the dream."

Harry was looking seriously at her. "It sounds like you were possessed."

"I know."

He turned to Ron. "You should get Ginny."

Hermione's heart stood still at the seriousness of his voice. Ron sobered again, put a hand on her shoulder a little awkwardly, and left the room. Harry glared at the diary. She knew he was trying to decide whether or not to open it.

"Harry," she said.

He looked up. "You're going to ask me what happened that day, aren't you?"

She nodded. "Did Ron tell you about the other thing I found? That warning? The name?"

"Yes. Mione Potter. We couldn't find any records for a Mione Potter, not in my family, not with any Potters in the United Kingdom. We traced the writing to an Alicia Silversmith."

"Alicia Silversmith?" Hermione stopped for a moment. "She was at St. Mungo's, she's related to the dragon burn victim."

"Really?" Harry looked interested. "Who's the victim?"

"The patient is Allistaire Avery. Friends with Draco, apparently. His brother was there as well. They're our age, but they went to Beauxbatons. And the woman, Silvermith, is their grandmother, I think—she seems to be very very pureblooded."

"Their grandmother? It might be the same woman. The woman the wand was registered to was seventy-nine years old."

"What?" Hermione looked at him. "Do you think they might have had something to do with it?"

"It's likely," he said, and glared at the diary again.

"Harry," she said. "You _have to tell me_. This woman is the same woman who wrote the note I found, and that note is a warning about Voldemort. And then suddenly I wake up in the Library, likely under possession, and find a restored version of his diary? It's got to have something to do with that night. I _know_ it."

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead absentmindedly. "No," he said after a long silence. "I don't think it's to do with that night. The business with this note and this diary and the Silversmith woman is probably its own matter."

"Harry, don't you think I should decide that for myself? I need to know if Voldemort is really dead."

"Oh," said Harry, "He's dead. Dumbledore ensured that."

"Harry, I haven't ever asked you, but this time, I need to know."

"No," said Harry in an angry whisper, and looked up at her. His eyes were red at the rims. "Trust me, Hermione. You don't want to know anything about that night. I would give anything not to know myself." There was a tense silence, after which he added, "I thought you understood that.

At this moment Ron and Ginny came into the room, Ginny windswept and red-cheeked, and Harry and Hermione broke off with the matter. Hermione was entirely unsatisfied. Now that she's broached the subject, she was determined to get an answer.

"Did you pick out a dress for the Charity Summit thing?" Ginny asked Hermione.

"What? No. I'll do it tomorrow."

"The Summit is tomorrow.

"Yes, it's in the evening. I'll get a dress after work."

"Dress robes."

"Oh, they're exactly the same thing. I've worn muggle dresses as often as I've worn robes from Madame Malkins."

"You're just going to throw it on after work?"

"Ginny," said Hermione. "Stop. You opted out of it. You don't have to get all fussy and walk around and try to think of interesting things to say to uninteresting people while standing in uncomfortable shoes. Just let me do it in my own way."

"O.K."

"So I guess Ron didn't tell you that Tom Riddle might be possessing me?"

Ginny stared at her blankly for a minute. "What?"

"The diary. It's back."

Harry brandished the book.

Ginny's face was very calm as she examined the book. Hermione was a little surprised. "How did he get rid of the hole the Basilisk made?" she asked.

"He?" asked Hermione.

"It could only be Lord Voldemort," said Ginny.

"Ginny, no, we don't know when this was done—"

"Sometime after Second Year, obviously. And I don't know about you but I've always known exactly where that diary was. I knew Dumbledore had it, I knew the drawer he had it locked in. He told me every spell he used to lock the drawer and I know when he died it went to his brother. I saw it once, after Dumbledore died. And after Lord Voldemort appararently died," said Ginny, her tone reasonable.

Harry tugged on a forelock of hair. "Apparently?"

"Yes, apparently. He's come back before."

"He won't come back," said Harry.

"Harry, we all know you'll never tell us what happened when Voldemort died, so you'll have to allow me my otherwise reasonable suspicions. I saw the diary last Christmas. That diary had to be restored within the last year. And in order to restore an avatar the creator needs to be present."

"You know a lot about that bloody diary," said Ron, a bit warily.

Ginny shrugged. "Of course I do, idiot."

Harry opened the diary. Ginny immediately tensed and then looked annoyed with herself. "We don't even know if it's fully restored," he said. "It might be a glamour."

"No," said Hermione. "I'm sure it's restored."

"Hermione, I agree it's weird that you lost consciousness and woke up in the Hogwart's Library, but it's not necessarily to do with Lord Voldemort. I'm sure it has more to do with this Alicia Silversmith woman."

Hermione hesitated a moment before speaking. "I saw Tom Riddle."

Ron swore.

"Why didn't you say so?" asked Harry, his eyes acute.

Hermione shrugged. "It was during the dream part. It—wasn't pleasant."

"What happened?" Ron demanded.

"Nothing." She sighed. "He said I should know him." She held up the blue and silver volume, which no one had looked at before. "He said this would show me where." She opened it, scanned the handwritten lines on the pages. "Where what, Merlin knows."

"All right. I accept that this might somehow be the work of the Tom Riddle in this diary—and Alicia Silversmith likely has something to do with the somehow," said Harry, "but Voldemort is dead. I promise you."

Hermione ignored Harry and began to flip through the pages idly, when a piece of paper fell out. It was folded and brown. When Hermione picked it up she realized the paper was thick and stained and waterlogged. She opened it.

It took her a moment to realize it for what it was, which was a map. Instead of places, there were animals. Their relation to each other through the architecture was dubious. Ron studied the map over her shoulder. Harry was still inspecting the diary.

"Harry, honestly, don't just play around with it," said Ginny. "You ought to take it to the Ministry."

Harry rolled his eyes. "The Ministry couldn't find its feet with a flashlight."

"You do realize you work for them?"

"Working from the inside," replied Harry.

Ron ran his finger across the map, pointing to four animals arranged about the picture. A raven, a griffin, a badger, and a snake. "It's a map of Hogwarts," said Ron. "Those are the dormitories."

"Oh, you're so clever when you want to be."

"Someday you'll accidentally compliment me in a heartfelt sort of way."

"I'm sorry, my angel." She turned back to the map. "Now, let's sort this map out. We've got the dormitories—and here's the kitchen."

"A chameleon for the Room of Requirement? That's clever."

"The divination room, a bat, how appropriate, the Headmaster's office, the Dining Hall, the Library—oh, it has the statue of the one-eyed witch here, look."

"Must be because she marks a passage. Yep—there's the one to Honeydukes. And that's one George said was blocked off—maybe because it's underwater, if they're drawing a grindylow in for it."

Hermione and Ron parsed the map for another half hour or so. There always seemed to be more symbols they had overlooked. In the end, there were only two animals they couldn't associate with rooms. There was a strange sort of hybrid animal which neither she nor Ron knew. When Harry saw it he hesitated slightly but said he didn't know what it was after staring at it for a bit. Hermione didn't believe him for a moment.

"I've seen it before. I just don't actually know what it is." And he didn't know where he'd seen it last.

Then there was a woman, and in the place of her ears were wings Both pictures were in the subterranean levels of Hogwarts, which none of them knew very well. They were both in Slytherin's territory.

"We'll have to see if we can find these rooms," said Hermione.

"The map's too imprecise. It doesn't indicate the exact location of any of these things. And you know Slytherin is full of secret passageways and corridors." This from Harry, as he leaned over their shoulders to inspect the map.

Hermione said nothing, but refused to give up the idea.

"Maybe Snape can tell you if he knows anything about these places," Ginny suggested cheerfully and with a straight face.

"Ugh," was Harry's immediate reply.

"Maybe you should go and see if there's anything in the _Library_," suggested Ron half-playfully, half-seriously.

For once, Hermione didn't want to go to the Library. She wanted to go to the Slytherin dungeons. She had the least idea what the interior looked like, and less idea how to even start to go about searching for secret passageways and whatnot. Ginny's was actually the best suggestion, although not if Harry was involved.

But there was also Mabon. What Harry said might very possibly be true. Alicia Silversmith might have something to do with this. Put in this light, she hardly knew whether Mabon or the Slytherin Dungeons were where she wanted to go first, but she would have to put the both of them off until the day after tomorrow anyway. The Ministry Annual Charity Summit was tomorrow, and she had to attend.

Harry looked worried. He was frowning at the bottom of the map, where she and Ron had isolated the only symbols they couldn't signify. Hermione triumphed secretly. She knew Harry recognized that symbol, and was prepared to believe he knew exactly where it was. Even if he wouldn't tell her, it must be possible to find. And she was sure that if she discovered whatever room the strange beast signified, she would also discover what had happened that night.

The only thing left to be perused was the book. Hermione waited until everyone was asleep to read it. She didn't know why she felt the need for secrecy. After all, her immediate response to the events of that evening had been to consult her friends. Maybe it was the fact that Harry had disappointed her in continuing to keep that night a secret from her. Maybe it was the fact that Tom Riddle had kissed her in her dream, and she hadn't been able to put it in the back of her mind. She wondered, very acutely, what exactly Ginny's experience had been in second year. She would have to talk to her again, alone—perhaps after the Summit.

First, there was the book. Hermione opened the book and began to peruse the narrow blue handwriting.

"I am the only daughter of Baba Yaga, fatherless and brought to life in the grinding of her mortar and pestle."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: I warned you guys the next chapter is a repeated chapter. Just keeping the narrative structure intact. So, re-read if you want, or read for the first time if it is your first time.

The CrescentMoonWriter—thankee very much, I always like your reviews. They warm my heartcockles. Blindfaithoperadiva—well, you already know what happened that night, it's Hermione who doesn't. Although, we didn't really get the story from Harry's perspective, which will be pretty interesting. This story is weird because it's a mystery that everyone who read Even the Stars Can Be Moved knows already, and it's probably hard to keep in mind what this Hermione doesn't know (because it's hard for me). For instance, keep in mind she doesn't know she's descended from Ravenclaw, anything about her adventure back in time, and also she never went through a months of searching for Harry and watching Ron die. And, Draco lovers, that means Draco didn't kill him. Weird, no? Punkdpanda56—when's the wedding?

The Story Repeats

I am the only daughter of Baba Yaga, fatherless and brought to life in the grinding of her mortar and pestle. I am books and speech and brains pounded together, combined by three unholy lights. The red knight kissed me with the flaming lips of morning; the white knight kissed me with incandescent afternoon light; the black night left his dark imprint nightly on my newborn skin. Thrice godfathered, so fathered am I, from purest light to darkest night am I, and the passion in between. The forests where I grew up crawled, in and out in endless shifting boundaries. You can look at the cartographers' maps of the Black Forest from then, before even the folk tales of my mother were a dream. No two maps are the same, and none contain the infinite leafy darkness that was my childhood playground. The territory always changed. I know because I constantly tested their limits. I am not one to be hedged in by borders. I am one to go beyond them. I am one to seek borders out so that I may break them.

First, however, there was much to learn within them, and learning was the substance of my creation. Baba Yaga taught me the five true names of magic—every spell, every transfiguration, and every charm is a combination or shade of those names. Many knew words that made things happen, names of names of names, but few knew the first names, the real ones. In those days you would hide your name in order to protect yourself. So I became Eve, Cathubogdva, Morrigan, Rowena Ravenclaw, Morgan Le Fay. I chose my name to suit my purpose. I wandered the Black Forest by the light of the skulls my mother collected, the light thereof stripping everything down to its core truth. I knew the vegetation like I knew the bones in my hand; I sensed the drifts of untethered power and tethered it to myself; I knew of the ideal form of beauty and the thousand faces of the gruesome; I knew of numbers, of things in themselves, of the mind that mirrors itself; I knew the currents of the air and from whence they came, and they whispered to me that it was time to leave.

I left the forest for the ocean and the ocean for the sand. I left the low lands for the high lands and watched the sky kingdoms fall. I learned to find the edges of the fickle faeries' land, whose territory was more mutable and dangerous than that of the Black Forest, and whose land was capable of infinite delights, and infinitely more sights. I learned of great people, of small people who would do great things, and of people who knew great things. I put my false names into all of their ears. My fingers felt the pulse of humanity, and they could stop it or draw it at will. In those days, there was no distinction between magical and nonmagical people. You can tell from the stories they tell of those days; you can tell because the nonmagical people still have those stories. I had not acted yet. A thousand blows will do nothing to a diamond, but a well placed strike, at an angle just so, will cut you just the line you want.

I was still in my relative girlhood when Godric Gryffindor came to me with his notion of a school. At that point in time, only those born of magical families acquired a proper enough instruction of their powers. Many magical people were born who never knew of their powers, and still others endangered many with their uncontrolled magical impulses. Often those who sought a magical education without the backing of a powerful family came to harm, or fell in with some misguided political contingent. And some nonmagical people found magical objects they could use, or found friends who would do magic for them.

There were those who wandered into the land of Faery. Few could keep any sort of perspective in that place of pure, wild magic, where high beauty turned to horror in the flicker of an eyelash, and the best intentions turned black more often than people tried to go back. When Godric came to me, I was living there. It had much to offer in terms of learning, and in terms of acquiring power. I had been carefully exposing myself to the land's ways and imbibing its darkening resources for nearly a century, and was reluctant to leave. However, I could be of unparalleled use to Godric, and his offer was a chance for me to indebt him with no cost or risk to myself. I could always return to the faery realm. The school was an idle project, meant to be short.

He had gathered two others for his purpose. Helga Hufflepuff knew more of the land than even I did; she had been born of it directly, had grown like a plant at the field of all places, the crossroads where all lands meet. She understood everything that came of the land and all of the creatures it birthed. She was allied to the Centaurs, the Unicorns, the Giants, the Dragons and the Merpeople, the five great inhuman empires, all of whom were properly sentient in those days. It was she who had given Godric the territory for the school; it was the most protected land that she knew of, and it was bordered by a forest populated by those she had allied herself to. I was the only other they talked to; none deigned to speak to humans, but I was inhuman enough for them. It was the three of us, in the beginning, who built the foundations of the school. Salazar Slytherin had not come yet.

I had not ever heard of Salazar Slytherin, and this provoked my infinite curiosity. There was little that I did not know left in the common world, and I waited for him like I waited for a book yet to be written. Then one night passed, and when the morning came, we found the last foundation laid out underneath all of ours. Perhaps it was fitting, that he should come to us like this; that we should wake up one day and find him underneath. For he had a great love of the underneath, for the interstices in between things, for all the places no one looked. In a way, he was the opposite of me, one who sought and created things that weren't meant to be known. I, the knower, was inevitably tempted.

We agreed that we should instruct our first class so as to become the school's first instructors. There was Bertilak, Helga's favorite and who Salazar despised, the son of a knight from newly-formed Logres. There was Nimue, half child of the merpeople and a fairy, my prize among them, beautiful and deep. She had emerald bright hair, quick eyes, and a quicker mind. There was plain Hellawas, who did not often come up from Salazar's dungeons, and might have found more secrets than me. And then, of course, there came one day a brother and a sister. She was called Ganeida, he Ambrosia. He had been birthed by an incubus; the two had only a father in common. They shared the same black hair and hawk yellow eyes. Godric took them. Later, of course, the boy would come to be known as Merlin.

One day, as I walked in the Forest surrounding the school, I came upon Slytherin speaking to a centaur. As I turned a wind in the path and the leaves retreated from my view, I saw that he wore the black body of a horse underneath him. He saw me watching, and had not before, and was not pleased at what he saw. The centaur who he spoke with glared; of the five empires, the centaurs were the least inclined to speak with those who weren't their kind. Only Helga among us could call them down from the cities they'd carved from the mountains. Now it seemed Salazar could speak to them too; his taste for forbidden things had been exposed to me.

I simply took a different path that day, the one that led away from him. Already I knew that secrets lose their power the less secret they become, so I told no one of what I had seen. As usual, Salazar hid himself and Hellawas from the rest of us, while we three all taught our students in ensemble. The boy Ambrosia was unnaturally gifted. He did not have to try, or train, and indeed he rarely did. He was often absent from class, and could be found sitting on a high tree limb, dangling a foot whilst speaking to a Giant, sometimes playing a lyre or occasionally writing runes onto the air for them. He could fly with the support of air alone. In order to let his sister Ganeida fly with him, he enchanted, of all things, a woodsman's broom.

Ganeida and Nimue were bosom friends, and Nimue often took her underneath the waters of the lake to teach her the art of marine soothsaying and scrying. When Ganeida was of a more proper age she properly fell in love, with Bertilak, who had by now learned a thousand common ruses to keep him from common death, which he would use to great effect later in his fabled meeting with Sir Gawain. Ganeida learned them all. Godric, when he was not on one or another of his quests, took her for an apt pupil. I knew better. Ganeida lived for her brother, and passed every thing she learned to him. Nimue, too, saw this soon enough to keep the things she liked best to herself. I could also see that this provoked Ambrosia's curiosity, which was nearly as large as my own. The silly boy, greater and darker secrets lay beneath his feet, but Nimue was a rare beauty. She resisted his clumsy charms easily, but she was young and I could see a part of her was as curious as he.

Salazar and Hellawas came up from their dungeons to share dinner with us one night, the former observant, the latter sullen. I knew this portended something; Salazar was never present at anything unless it might behoove him. Gryffindor, too, had returned from the wars which were currently determining the borders of our lands; both sides had magic, although both were dominated by unmagical soldiers. Gryffindor regaled the table with their bravery; that the nonmagic did face those with greater power was forever a a thing of infinite beauty to Godric. He was speaking of Uther Pendragon, who had narrowly avoided killing curses, had persisted despite impeding and mind-dulling jinxes, and fought with a brutal vigor even then. Ambrosia's eyes were shining, and I could tell the tale would soon be a lyre-fixed song that he would ply the giants with.

"You speak well of a pawn," commented Salazar quietly.

"I assure you, he is no pawn," protested Godric.

"How many magicians did he kill?"

"He smote Frey, the wild faery, with just his sword, and scores of men besides."

"How many magicians did Frey smite?"

"Five, but still he died."

"If you did not gather every piece of him, he will be resurrected in Faery."

"We gathered all his pieces, and the blood-soaked earth beneath. It was Pendragon did it."

Salazar waved away the last remark, uninterested in the argument, too sure of his own secret principles to bother to make Godric see his sense. In that moment I caught his preoccupation with cold-blooded estimates of power, and wondered if his fascination with secrets was driven by power or if his estimation of power was driven by secrets. With a wary eye, Godric left off his tales and began to question Helga about her recent foray into the land of Faery. Faery was as unsuited to the common land as I was suited to it. However, just as a few humans and magical folk crossed its borders out of curiosity, a few of the fickle and wild inhabitants of that world came into the common lands, with often disastrous results. Godric wanted to treat the matter with diplomacy, and Helga, product of all lands, was a natural choice of ambassador. She did not succumb as easily as most to the rapid changes and turns of that wild land, and she wielded a stolid power that few dared cross; she could have stood against either Gryffindor or Slytherin. I, a fellow inhuman, was on roughly equal ground. Since I verged so close towards the amoral ways of Faery, I would have been a poor choice for negotiations, much as I would have loved the chance to return.

The sound of a brass cup and its contents falling to the floor broke the conversation. When I turned towards its direction, Salazar was already watching. He'd somehow known it was coming. Ambrosia's yellow eyes were the snapping yellow of a flame, empty and full at the same time, burning with a vision no one else could see. He seemed possessed, moved from the outside, and he rose a hand to point diagonally towards the ground outside of the castle.

Ganeida was not in the least discomfited. She brought his eyes to face hers and commanded him to tell her what he saw. He answered that, underneath the ground there were two dragons, fighting, and that they foretold a great battle that would effect all of the lands.

We rose as one, the founders and the first students of our school, to the grounds to the west of the school. Helga peeled the earth away as easily as the skin from a fruit, and indeed there was a cavern beneath it, which was not a part of Slytherin's domain. There were in fact two dragons fighting; they were not any kind I knew from the Inhuman Empire of the Dragons, and they did not evidence any of the wise sentience that characterized their kinds. Perhaps this too was a portent. They struggled with neither of them giving sway. One was red and gold; the other was green and silver. The former had the brute strength of a warrior; he would topple the green and silver one, but it would turn out to be a feint, and the latter would rise again, to attack another time. The fight lasted a half an hour before our eyes before the two dragons flickered like twin candles and disappeared.

I was standing next to Salazar, whose face had arranged itself into an inscrutable mask. "How uncommon," I noted. "Prophecies are one thing; material prophecies are quite another."

He turned to me. "You've noticed it too. The source was the boy. I do not think the others know."

"Like as not he'll have something to do with this war he fortells."

"And the two combatants?" he asked.

I looked at Salazar, and Godric beyond him. I had my ideas and he might have had his own. I have never, however, given anyone what they want for free. Instead of replying, I gave him a small smile and withdrew to my quarters. I could see the rough path trod by two feet; it had not yet become a clearly marked road, but it diverged at a point and I knew the choice of direction would be of vital importance to the ambiguous goals I sought. I could not wait forever to act, learning in its stead. Still, there was a while yet and I had to make my choices clear.

It being winter, the pagan resurrection festival called for a brief cessation of schooling. I watched a brief play act in a nonmagic village, the hobby horse and the female man leading a parade towards a crowned fool, who pretended to die with a sword in his armpit and, after a brief moment, lived again. They burned oak and hung holly. I knew the ceremony to be vital to Helga, to tie all the meanings of the land which her power drew from together. In her ceremony, the sick she gathered did die, in the throes of her strange holiday medicine, made of holly and oak, and were reborn in perfect health.

I took the moment to make a foray back to the faeries' land. Once I entered it I did not wish to go back. Every step brought me something new, a color I had not seen, an equation I had imagined impossible, some unclassifiable creature. I was summoned at once by the Faery King to attend his court. I quickly assented. The court of the Faery King was nothing like that of the common courts which sought to imitate that original one. It was, like all things in Faery, a shifting, flickering place. Allegiances were settled and broken within the same minute, and the balance of power was forever unbalanced, the hierarchy rising and falling like tides around the fixed power of the King, who, perhaps because he was the new ruler at court, perhaps because he so rarely showed himself, was unknown to all but a few.

The palace could only be found by following the evening star until it turned into the morning star. In this place, the difference between the two was no fallacy, although I knew it to be so in the common land. I, godfathered by morning and evening themselves, bade the star change with a blink and arrived shortly at the castle. One moment it was made of silver and at another moment of emerald; it seemed to be made of towering spires at one moment and at another of battlements and turrets. I entered the palace with a smile, and that school I had come from seemed like a mote of dust in the eye of magic itself. I entered a room of changeling decadence. Before my eyes, the courtesans' dresses changed from flowers to jewels to butterflies; I saw men's hair grow before my eyes, shifting with them into womanhood, while certain of the women became men. It was not only your costume which changed here, but your features and essence.

I wore a simple sheath of light. It changed from the red of morning, to the white of afternoon, to the black of night, and my hair, hung low down my back, changed with it. My features remained steadfast, and here it was not only unusual, but a display of power. The King was so far invisible, as he was at so many of his court celebrations. It was said he took them as opportunities to observe the inhabitants of his land, to ponder how he might rule them. I circuited the room, myself more observant than participant, as ever. Towards my left a couple, kissing, merged into one. I passed a fratricide afterwards. Death was as impermanent as it was inevitable here; resurrection was always a possibility. I began to spiral closer towards the middle, compelled by some strange force; a force it was, however, and my curiosity allowed it to draw me in. I twirled on the arm of a blue-haired man for a moment; he wished to detain me for recreation, but I was driven ever closer towards the center. People were whispering now. The King had appeared. And I, in my circuit, drew towards him at what I knew to be his provocation. The shifting grew wilder now; people did not maintain shape for more than a moment or two. There was a sudden, brief surge of some horrid, strange energy, and for a moment I saw myself in another life, still at Hogwarts, by a river in the forest, washing out a cup. Perhaps it was yet to come; the vision made me dizzy. I shut my eyes and when they opened, there was a tall, black figure before me, wearing a high, dark crown. I could feel my dress and my hair shifting, as one, towards night. The King turned to me.

"Salazar," I whispered, and he caught me by the wrist.

"Yes," he whispered back, a wicked smile under his dark eyes. "Dance with me." I let him catch my back with his arm and pull me towards him; my free hand fell to his shoulder. I had never in my life been in the least bit surprised; I knew far too much for that. Here was the power of a secret: it wholly unseated me. I could hardly stand, and let Salazar Slytherin, King of Faery, hold my form up and swallow me with his eyes. After a moment, he pressed his cool cheek to mine and whispered into my ear. "Thrice met, Rowena. You know the power of this number, three. I have seen you looking towards me, hoping to open up my secrets as if I were a common lid. Do you still wish to know some of them?"

He was offering a sacrifice, but no sacrifice comes without a price. He withdrew to watch me, smiling. He knew I, being the creature I was, could not refuse. "Yes," I breathed.

Slytherin whirled me in a private spiral in the center of the room. "Very well. A hundred years ago or more, I was the son of a peasant in a common town on the cliffs of Dover. Magic was nothing but a story I sometimes heard on my grandmother's lap. Then, one night, I was exchanged for a changeling, and was adopted into the fair land. A common occurrence, no?"

"Yes," I agreed.

"It was the Queen who took me. She rose me as her own child; I was more of a favorite than her eldest. You can imagine how quickly I forgot the common life, and loved my new one as no faery person could. You know the love I speak of, don't you, Rowena, who bided here so long?"

"I do," I admitted.

"For half a century I was content, but I wanted what my mother had, to be the center around which the world I so loved revolved. A natural desire, no?"

"What did you do?"

"Oh," he breathed, his wicked smile wickeder. "I killed her and ate her. Clever of me, wasn't it?"

"And everything she was, all the bits you wanted, were resurrected inside of you."

He passed a hand through my hair, a fond look in his eyes. "You are quite clever too, aren't you?" These displays, these smiles and emotions where none had been before, discomfited me quite as much as his original appearance did. The power of a secret: I was under thrall. His face passed nearer mine. "Be my Queen, Rowena. Help me make the outside like the inside. Bring wonder to the world with me, so that nothing common may ever be seen again." His eyes had long since swallowed me, and within a moment his lips drew my breath into him. Night for night we were, and exchanged the stars between us. He had his answer. He had me. He told me to come with him and in a crack of sound we were suddenly in his room, a room outfitted by the night, with hidden things for furniture and vast dark spaces for walls. That night I knew pleasure beyond my ken, and it was not without a price, but for all these unknown things the King of Faery brought me I would and did pay any dear price without thought.

I was fixed in appearance, that night: my hair and eyes remained dark as the night, my skin morning bright, and my lips red as the sun seen on the horizon through clouds. When I returned to Hogwarts, the change was noticed, noted, questioned, and though it was connected to my journey to the faery land, it was not connected to Slytherin. I was the first person whom Godric began to distrust. I realized, as soon as I saw it, that Salazar had planted the seed in me so that Godric would cease to look his way, for a time. For a long enough time.

To me it did not matter that I had been made use of. I was under the spell of Salazar's dream, of the complete and utter cessation of normality, to the opening up of the entire world to the infinite possibilities of the faery land. I drifted through my days, passing over so many things I already knew, with so little opportunity to learn. I saw Nimue and Ambrosia out of the corner of my eye, beginning to play at love, saw Godric retreat to his wars and return from them, watched Helga slowly accrete her growing reserves of power. I lived for the night, when I descended, for the unending black that surrounded Salazar and I as new things unfolded between us, blossomed and dropped into the dark spaces, star after star after star. One night, as I left, I saw Hellewas, and had I any greater estimation of her I might have attempted to erase her memory, but I knew her to be just a pathetic, love-sick girl whose glimpse of me was hard-won. I was right in my estimation, but did not realize what might come to pass. I had become careless.

Soon enough and yet not soon enough, Nimue had been made suitable as an instructor. She gained a name, Viviene, to mask her former tutelage. She tired of Ambrosia, which broke his heart and caused him to retreat, to Godric's great disappointment. Godric's attention to Ganeida waned, and she in turn withdrew her attention from the earth that was Helga's domain, and the vast, cool waters of Vivienne, to the sky. It was the one subject that still connected her to her beloved brother. Of all the things in the common world, the night sky still held some interest to me, and I was able to give her some little instruction, and guide her attentions to the sky's rarest attributes and most potent mysteries. Another year passed, and then Launcelot arrived, and with him, the first division.

Nimue, now Viviene, brought him up from the surface of the lake as a child, and said that she had found him stranded by a spring in Benoic, called to it by his cries. He was a human child, devoid of all magic, and yet Viviene insisted he remain at Hogwarts. A scrying she had performed indicated that he was vital to them in future matters. No one protested this at all, except, of course, for Salazar. He was tactful enough to pursue his argument with Godric behind closed doors, where for many nights there persisted intense conversations which interrupted our near nightly idylls. I had not yet understood what Salazar's method for bringing about his new world was. These early tidings were the subtlest of hints.

"You were common once yourself," I pointed out to him when the conversations failed. "Could you not bring the child to Faery and brace him with magic so that he may more properly abide here?"

"That is not an option," he insisted, seething. I knew at once why it was not, at least not to this boy who had swallowed up his mother in his boundless ambition. I may have loved the faery realms, but I had been born to power and felt no need to utterly yoke it to me in the manner of Salazar. Only a boy who understood the vast contrast between the near-animal common life and the chaotic magic of Faery could be so driven to completely expunge himself and all else of normalcy. Only such a one could feel the fear of the once-powerless, and the ensuing thirst for ever more ultimate power. Any other who gained power as he had, was a threat to him. Salazar saw that I understood him; he always saw it when I learned something new. He kissed me and murmured to me about my cleverness, and it occurred to me that he thought himself more powerful than me, but only just. He kept me by his side for my use as an instrument and for my danger as a threat. It pleased me that he was more powerful; it meant that I still had things I could learn from him.

There is a well-known argument about the natural laws of the common world. There is no good reason for natural phenomenon to again and again manifest itself in the same manner, for the sun to rise as it does, with no alteration in its course, for a crystal lattice to be made in ice, for an object to fall instead of rise. Yet, for as long as the common world has existed, this state of things had persisted. Perhaps the common world was a counterpoint to the faery realm, where change itself was the rule. In any case, I had always had an interest in the argument, especially now that Salazar wished to remove this state of being entirely. I was discussing it with Ganeida one day when she told me that it was an argument of particular interest to the centaurs.

"How is it you know the musings of the centaur philosophers?" I asked her. "Ambrosia himself was never allowed in their company, even after Hufflepuff attempted to persuade them."

Ganeida's eyes softened at this mention of her brother, but she answered quickly. "Oh, Slytherin taught Hellawas the trick of shapeshifting. She's been carrying on with the centaurs, and discussing their scrying of the stars with me. I believe Slytherin did the same; she told me he'd given them a gift, unlikely as it seems."

Ganeida had always been too generous with what she learned. Still, it was bound to be to my advantage. At that time, Ambrosia was creating Stonehenge as a distant gift to his sister. It was an instrument from which to glean information about the stars, their comings and goings and what they bode. Once it was built, she would often sojourn there, as often to meet her brother, now called Merlin, as to pursue her solitary studies. Viviene had placed longevity spells on Launcelot, and also gave him a ring to protect him against magic. This was for the most part to protect him from Salazar. Seeing no reason not to, she began to undertake his instruction. The boy was kept away from the eyes of Salazar, which was easy enough as the man spent all of his time in the dungeons, making certain amendments to his domain. The work dwindled our nights together, and I went to Stonehenge with Ganeida, to pursue an infinity of observations. It was at this time that Merlin began to involve himself in the affairs of Uther Pendragon's son, no doubt prompted by the fond stories Gryffindor had furnished him with. He and Gryffindor began to communicate again, and speak of certain of Vivienne's tidings.

When I returned I bode my time in the Forest, seeking Helga's company. I knew I might be depended upon to be her equal and learned what I could of the power she was acquiring. She, unlike Gryffindor, had not wavered in her trust of me. Her power was too solid and her ethics too sound. Healing was naturally within her domain, and she sought to remedy the world. It was upon one of our forays that we came across Hellawas bathing in a tree-enclosed spring. It was plain she was pregnant, and plain enough she wished no one to know. She shifted her shape so quickly that Helga did not notice. She saw, however, that I did.

That night I went to Salazar despite his work. I inquired when he last had seen me, and he answered that he had the night before. I bode him to bring Hellawas to the room. She came, her chin thrust out, eyes sullen but determined. "Twas not me you saw," I told Salazar, and revealed her pregnant form to him.

He clapped his hands together and laughed. "My clever girls! Oh, you actually tricked me, Hellawas. Certainly your greatest accomplishment to date. And I'm sure my lovely Rowena put it all together practically out of thin air." Hellawas gave me a fierce stare, knowing this was not the reaction I had expected. However, it was clear enough she understood nothing of Salazar, and less of me.

"It was not only Slytherin you tricked, insolent girl. I, however, am not charmed. You think you know of me, but you only know what I have revealed under the name of Ravenclaw. I have many other names, three godfathers, and a mother who'd as soon flay you as look at you. You have two choices before you: you can face me for transgressions, for which you will certainly lose your child, or you can leave, and have it as the only keepsake of your unrequited love for Slytherin."

She turned to Slytherin for support, but he was entertained by the prospect of my wrath. Having no choice, she left to bear her child. I cursed her to carry the child for fifteen years before birth, so that she knew the full measure of crossing me.

Slytherin fixed me with a cold stare after she left. "I cannot permit you jealousy, howsoever charmingly you display it. I am King of Faery, and you may be Queen, but I shall do as I will with whomsoever I choose."

I looked impassively back at him. "You certainly may, Salazar, but Hellawas may not." And I withdrew, to ponder what secrets may have dropped that night and others, which would never now fall to me.

They say it was I, as Morgana, who gave birth to Mordred. However, the son of Uther Pendragon was no brother of mine, and Mordred was not my son. He was the product of Hellewas and Slytherin, and a cursed gestation of my making.

Soon afterwards Slytherin sent me back to Faery to keep his affairs there in order. Vivienne took my place as instructor. As I crossed the borderlands, the fickle ways of the fair land worked their first change in me. My nighttime hair became the red of the morning sun; Slytherin's night now claimed only my eyes, and my mouth remembered our passion. I returned to the faery land as its Queen. As such, I was in a position to learn more than ever. Already I had learned the hundreds of secrets of hundreds of nights with Salazar. Now I was there, I decided I might learn of the secrets of the morning, of dew-speckled things red with birth blood and not quite in bloom.

As a ruler, this was a prudent choice. I learned to see a rebellion before it unfolded, dissatisfaction before it boiled over. And here, in the place of all changes, I learned to see what change was coming. I do not know how long I dwelt in faery, because I became a thing of all perspective. I saw in 360 directions and a hundred steps into the future. In faery, I could control my subjects with the flicker of an eyelash. Destruction began to wane from the land. Wayward travelers did not become monstrosities of what they had been. Beauty and ugliness still lived by each other's side, but equally. Gradually, my subjects began to realize that in this land, they did not need resurrection to keep death away. Fratricide, patricide, and matricide whispered now instead of shouting. I never again punished as I had punished Hellawas. It was the wisdom of morning that taught me harsh punishments bear bitter fruits. It was all to the good of my rule that the Faery land became as it was. There came to it a Golden Age, not one that flickered in a day, but one which lasted a decade, or at least what a decade seemed in that perhaps land.

It was during this time that Titania and Oberon were my face at court. I sometimes went to the masquerades to see them, the most beautiful in a land of wild beauty. The time of night was fading from faery. There were no more murders at the balls, although there was still wickedness, and change still ruled the day. By this time my eyes, too, were red: morning and afternoon ruled my features. At one of the festivals, when the spirit of resurrection began to stir the air again, Helga Hufflepuff appeared.

I had been gone for a long time. Two decades had passed since I had last seen my lover, or my pupils. Slytherin had gone from Hogwarts five years ago; a rift had opened between him and the others as children of non-magical origins continued to be permitted on the grounds. A year ago, he had begun to work towards achieving his vision, apparently with the help of Hellawas. It occurred to me that he had gone after their child was born. A war unlike any other was brewing in the common land. A black death of Slytherin's making was sweeping the land; only magical people were immune. Continental tribes were closing in on the Isle of Albion, slaughtering the common folk; Slytherin thought nothing of employing common tribes to achieve his ends. He turned the common folk against each other, patiently feeding one into the mouth of the other in his quest to extinguish their kind from the earth.

In Albion, Uther Pendragon's son had pulled Gryffindor's sword from a stone and become a young king. Both Merlin and Gryffindor served as his advisors; Merlin closely and Gryffindor from a distance. Hogwarts remained a bastion, although it had not yet needed to be called into action. Vivienne was still in the process of educating Launcelot; it was still a school, and not yet the sanctuary that others would call Avalon.

I listened to Hufflepuff's tale and asked her what she expected of me. My side was clear. Though I had brought light into Faery, darkness still had its place. It was the whole of Slytherin's heart and his best tool to remake the common land.

"Do you know he cannot be killed?" Helga asked. "It is not that he has been resurrected. He is… immortal."

"You know this because you attempted to kill him," I deduced.

"Does it not intrigue you, that your ally has achieved immortality? Of all the things magically possible, this is yet unheard of. Is your curiosity not provoked by this secret?"

I regarded Helga. Her ability was so unassuming, yet so vast. I knew she was not asking me to find the answer for her, but tempting me to find them for myself. Tempting me to free myself from my bonds. I was right. She gave me the seed of a flower, an Aperio, made of black and white petals. If I were to fertilize it with Salazar's seed, I might gain all his secrets. Having provided me with the means to gain everything which still held me under Salazar's spell, she took her leave. She knew I would not hesitate to gain knowledge, whatever it was, at whatever price. I sent a servant to find Salazar, to tell him that Hufflepuff had sought me out and told me tidings from the common land. To tell him I had means with which to help. But I never gave anyone anything they wanted without a price. Salazar knew this, and returned to Faery within the month.

I had not been inside his night-made room for twenty years and more. In that black room, I noticed not the stars, but the vast emptiness between them. Now that I had learned every star's name, I realized that as many as they were, they were not infinite. Slytherin, seeing his changed kingdom, had his own realizations, and when we drew apart in his room, the space between us solidified into permanence. He found that his subjects would not obey him, hardly knew him, and barely remembered him. He bade me back to the common lands, and I withdrew, knowing it to be a banishment with the threat of death. Besides, I could always go back.

I had his seed, and I fertilized the Aperio with it. There was not much left I did not know. Instead, the knowledge the flower gave me was that many of my suspicions were right. Slytherin was deeply involved in a mad attempt to kill every single common human being with every means possible to him. I had suspected the allegiances he had made with each of the five inhuman empires. Only the Unicorns outright denied his proposals; Hufflepuff had restrained the Merpeople and the Centaurs. If not for Hufflepuff, the Black Death would surely have done most of his work for him. Now he was instigating wars planet-wide, it was only his lack of focus which allowed Albion to oppose him as successfully as it did. His greatest weakness was the common folk. It seemed beyond Slytherin's comprehension that the non-magic might prove vital in toppling his strategy. I could see the poppy-red death bloom he was forcing into blossom; only now did I see it spelled the end not just for the common world, but the faery land as well.

There were more important things. I knew now that he had not eaten his mother whole. He had saved a bit of her, her blood. I knew he had recently slain Uther Pendragon, and had saved a bit of his blood. I knew his son had been born, and that he had slain Hellawas soon after, very recently. The blood of a parent; the blood of an enemy; the blood of a friend. Their blood was mixed together in an ancient cup forged when Faery was born: the Grail. This was the secret to Salazar's immortality. He had mixed the blood of those three figures he killed in this ancient cup, and thereby forged a magic unheard of: immortality without resurrection. It was new, and it had been come by just in time.Then, he had hidden the Grail. Only the purest of hearts could call it back into any world, so that it was now even lost to Slytherin, and thus, cleverly hidden.

Nothing tied me to Slytherin, now.

I returned to Hogwarts with my news to discover that it was under siege. Both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had gone away on business related to Slytherin, and now he had taken advantage of their absence to rally his forces at the school. I found Ganeida, Vivienne, Bertilak, Launcelot, and even Merlin, defending it. They had evacuated their students.

They say a diamond will often withstand heavy blows from the wrong angle, but can be broken along a precise line with only a tap. My new, morning knowledge saw the way to crack through Salazar's forces. I did not hesitate. He had gathered mostly magical folk, wizards and warlocks of the common land, as well as a few of the faery folk, although not as much as he might have. Launcelot, protected by his ring, was singing his sword steadily through the crowd. The rest fought through magical means and were not as effective as this newly-made man with his simple death-stroke. I knew every fighter, every one of their powers, their strengths and weaknesses. Within the minute I had fought the battle in my head a thousand ways, myself the victor in each scenario. I approached where Launcelot did not, letting him take care of the nonmagic folk with his prodigious talent. I sent out a cloud of ravens to intercept the brunt of the curses flying towards us; I leveled the common magical folk severally and permanently. I stabilized the magic of the faery folk by reconfiguring the magical field. They were used to working only on chaotic impulse, and had little idea of what to do with their powers balanced and lawful. The others made short work of them. Nearly everyone had fallen. Then, Salazar alone remained.

We faced each other on this battlefield of his making, on the grounds we had once shared and made love within. We had never been so far apart. His face was the purest dark of bottomless rage. "First you destroy my kingdom, and now you choose to side against me?" he seethed.

"You have nothing left for me, Salazar," I replied. "You know me for what I am."

"I am stronger than you."

"You were, once," I agreed. "However, power is a fickler thing than anything in the faery land. I am made from and a vessel of knowledge. When you ceased to have secrets from me, you lost all hold over me."

He turned, black hair tumbling over his black eyes, looking for all the world like my Godfather the Evening, unseated from the tireless horse which brought darkness across the world each night. "Then I shall have more secrets from you, Rowena Ravenclaw, daughter of Baba Yaga, and find all those you keep from me."

That he knew my mother spoke of how great his power had indeed become. Still, he could not make a secret more important than the Grail, and I watched him retreat into the forest, shifting as he did in turn, into a centaur, growing a dragon's wings and a siren's tail, lengthening to a Giant's height. I knew he had the allegiance of four of the five Inhuman Empires, and that there was not world enough or time to find the Grail before he devastated the world with their combined wrath.

I was welcomed back to Hogwarts for my defense of it and for the news I had of the Grail. After my long duration in the fair lands and my recently altered appearance, I became Morgana La Fay. After hearing that the Grail could only be uncovered by the purest of hearts, Merlin departed to his young King Arthur, believing him to be capable of finding it. I knew there was no heart of earth capable of it, however. A heart like that needed cultivation, and there was no time to cultivate it. Helga returned soon after and was happy enough to see that the seed she had planted had bloomed in me. I was vital to this side's success, I knew.

I had studied practically all time and space had given me to study, but I had not yet made a study of time itself. This seemed the proper cue for it. Vivienne and Ganeida joined me in my studies; surprisingly, so did Launcelot. The boy, now a man, had grown up in a wholly magical environment while having no magic himself. He had made up for this with his learning, which now exceeded even Vivienne's. It was not hurt by an unlikely brilliance, so strong and so natural that he kept it to himself, and to such a degree that even his teachers did not know its depths. His lack of magical ability helped his knowledge as well, since magical people felt no need to keep secrets from him. He was charming and on terms with every person in the castle, and I had no doubt this had developed due to his natural curiosity. His lack of pretence, the secrecy of his razor-sharp brilliance, provoked confidences that would otherwise have remained hidden. Since he had surpassed Vivienne even in knowledge, I became his new teacher. I felt he would be the most likely to help me find a way to conquer time and bend it to my will. If I could achieve it, I knew it would be worth far more than the kind of time Salazar had gained in his immortality.

We began with numbers. The world did not suspect much of numbers, then, because it had made the grave mistake of assuming nature made them. Numbers corresponded to nature, but nature, at least nature in the common land, did not correspond to the vast possibilities of the numbers that lay as yet undreamed of in man's head. I taught Launcelot of the numbers that corresponded to nature: the naturals, certain irrationals, the limitations of certain of Euclid's axioms. Between us, we dreamed the rest. This was the beginning of Arithmancy. Having walked into a world of numbers which nature could not mimic, we bound nature to it by force, and forced change. Arithmancy is the underpinning of all modern, lawful magic, whereby small things can be made large, mass can be made weightless, matter be made into another matter, and gravity be made to stop.

Numbers were Launcelot's strength. It was in the very way he fought, clean and efficient in its geometery, the angles divined not by calculation but by instinct. It was in the way he thought, every sentence made up of atoms into logical sequences. It was in the way he loved, the way two parallel lines, if given world enough and time, will meet.

I was there when he first saw Guinevere. It is true that no one in the common land matched that girl for beauty, and she was a girl at the time. It wasn't that her hair was a glowing shade of gold, or that her eyes were a pale shade of blue ringed at the edges with a thin strata of stormclouds. It was her presence within this body. I had never seen such an absence of guile, such a bursting of life, such joy. She had wandered, somehow, into the outer boundaries of the grounds. I wondered ever after if she had something peculiarly magical to her—perhaps a tiny grain around which her spirit formed like a pearl. She could never perform a spell, as Launcelot never could, but I didn't ever discover how she came to that place, or why, even after Launcelot spoke with her. He told me that she had simply been wandering. It was her favorite pastime. He led her back to the common land and returned stricken with love. I wanted him to have her as much as he wanted her himself. I began a new education for him, that other part of the morning, the passion that is newly born. I cultivated the passion within him, stoked it, taught him how to provoke it.

It was not long after that, that we turned time. At least, we did so theoretically. We had to harness the theory to a physical body in order to physically reverse time. Time is coupled with Space in a way which even magic cannot undo, so to change the one, you must change the other. We worked the year on it. Bertilak left, to do Helga's bidding as the Green Knight. The Round Table was formed, to look for the Grail. Arthur made a political marriage, to young Guinevere. Slytherin raised Mordred in secret, his dark present for the world he was creating. I had my own secret, which uncleaved from me three months before our project's completion. Launcelot never knew he had a son, whom I called Galahad. No one could know of him. He was the key to the successful retrieval of the Grail. Once Launcelot had done all he could, he went out into the world to do his part helping in the search for the Grail. I knew it was not the only thing he searched for. And, when it was done, and the Time Turner completed, I left Hogwarts, now Avalon, again, with Galahad, and slipped backwards into time.

It was not a thing without repercussion. The natural world was altered, and left its mark in the stars. Still, they foretold a different future now, and this one was not so dark and full of destruction. Certain things remained. Norse tales tell and tell again of a war doomed to be lost to its heroes, which they must nevertheless fight. I was elsewhere now, still black-haired and black-eyed, a vestige of my ignorance. In this earlier world, I cleansed myself of everything: good and bad, and all of its knowledge. I grew pale as I dwindled, and closer to the truth. My hair, my skin, and even my eyes were white. Now, I was Elaine.

I raised Galahad in a white place, in perfect purity and perfect truth. He knew not of the world, but of the numbers which corresponded to it. He knew no magic, and was raised as though he possessed none. He grew perfectly formed in spirit and in mind, utterly balanced and utterly incapable of being imbalanced. He learned of nothing but perfect truth and perfect goodness and perfect purity. I was consumed by the same, the white flame of a star, of the fully risen sun. Our home was a windless asylum of the soul, untouched by provocation or temptation. There I learned of the endless complications of the line dividing right and wrong. There, I learned to be good. Galahad grew for eighteen years. When I bid him leave his home, it was a few years after I had gone back through time. Nothing had changed, except for the stars. Few marked their change, Slytherin among them.

Although he had learned nothing of weaponry, his first encounter bade him use it. He knew of the Grail, and of the Arthurian court's search for it. None could approach the court without proving their worth in blades first, however. Ironically, the man chosen to test him was his own unknown father, Launcelot. They approached each other on horseback; Galahad's was a unicorn he had befriended some years earlier. In their first collision, Galahad unseated Launcelot. Galahad descended from his horse to fight Launcelot on equal terms. He then broke Launcelot's sword, and threw his own to the ground to again fight equally. Next, they fought without weapons, and Galahad again bested Launcelot. Having never been taught a thing about violence, he bested his first opponent in innocence and with justice.

He was then invited to King Arthur's court at Launcelot's request. By this time, Launcelot had become King Arthur's most important advisor, and the human leader of the search for the Grail. As a reward, King Arthur turned a blind eye to Launcelot's affair with Guinevere; his marriage to her had been a political one, after all. Helga and Godric led the magical counterpart of the search. Merlin worked more closely with the nonmagical humans. He was sure it would be a human who found the Grail. He had made a chair for the Round Table, called the Seige Perilous, designed to reveal the human destined to find the Grail. It would kill anyone but the man capable of finding it. When Galahad was admitted to the Round Table, he unwittingly sat in it, and did not die. When that news came to me, I knew I had done my task. Soon after, Galahad was left to search for the Grail with Launcelot's cousins, Bors and Perceval, the latter of whom was an uneducated magical child born of normal parents.

It was then I began my own quest: the search for Salazar. Since Albion presented such a strong front to Slytherin, he had retreated to the East to continue his work and gather his strength. I followed the trails of his destruction. Hundreds of villages had been emptied by the plague, by his soldiers, and by his magic. I could smell the lingering wildness of the faery folk; he had gathered the worst of them to wreck havoc on the world. Forests had been trampled by the Giants, and fires were left by the Dragons. The Centaurs left no trail, but I knew they too were allied with him. The Merpeople had long since left him once they knew the nature of the war he waged. In my new form, I was repulsed by the work he had done. Until recently, I had been willing to help him, and all for the sake of knowledge. So many were dead, and departed for who knows where; so many were left behind, to powerlessness and misery, for the sake of the power of one. And for the sake of my own knowledge, I might have delivered the same. I followed the path for a year, and kept my eyes open to what might have been my fate. After nearly a millennium, I was growing closer to human. Perhaps it had been the child, half-human Galahad. Perhaps he had as much given birth to me as I to him.

I found Slytherin alone in the highest reaches of the Himalayas. He was alone except for his son, Mordred, who had the same sullen eyes as his mother. He did not recognize me at first. When he did, he asked Mordred to leave. He asked me what I had done to myself. I asked him the same. He offered me secrets, again. He had so many new secrets, and I could nearly taste them. My old hunger had not left me, it seemed. There was only one secret I needed, and it was all I could take to satiate myself. I kissed him, for the last time, and it dropped into my mouth and bloomed in my stomach. I knew where he had gathered his troops. Then I left him.

In turning their focus to the search for the Grail, Helga and Godric had left Slytherin to his devices. They had left him to cut large swathes of suffering and pain in other lands. While Galahad pursued the Grail, I stayed Slytherin's hand as much as I could. After slaughtering those in his camp, I returned to the Faery Realm, to seal what borders I could against its wicked inhabitants. I could not seal it against Slytherin himself, and he returned, again and again, for fresh weapons. He began to go West, for the final battle. He gathered the remnants of his alliances. The centaurs had left him now, weakened by my attacks, and retreated into their kingdoms, never to speak to others again. The Giants and Dragons still made formidable allies. And, immortal, Slytherin himself was formidable. I attempted to stay his hand, but once again, secrets were my downfall. Now, they worked against me.

Slytherin entered Albion. Helga and Godric abandoned their search for the Grail. Arthur did likewise, and Perceval returned from Galahad's quest, since he was capable of magic. Once again, a great battle chose Hogwarts for its grounds. Again, I sent my ravens into the air to bear the brunt of the curses. Now, Slytherin turned my own power against me, and the ravens did not fall to the spells they intercepted. Instead they carried the spells back to us, and they were no longer my own; I could not turn them back. The Giants were immune to our magic, and formed a shield, but only after Mordred had broken through the front lines to battle Arthur. Helga drew the land up into mountains, which surrounded and then crushed them. Godric patrolled the sky on the wings of a hippogriff, attempting to repulse the Dragons. He managed to outmaneuver and blind them, but they still blindly sent fire out, inflicting damage on the humans of our side. Unbelievably, Arthur managed to fend Mordred's magical attack off, blocking every spell with Gryffindor's sword. Reinforcements prevented Launcelot from joining his side. It was Ganeida who finished the Dragons, creating a water-made net that enclosed them and prevented them from inflicting any more damage. The nets broke of their own accord when they retreated. I took on my former Faery subjects, and fared well, since they recognized me as their Queen and as often as not fell without striking me. Vivienne had gathered the merpeople, who drew many of the humans into the lake with their songs. They tried to draw Mordred in, but he simply cast a spell to make his ears unreachable. Bertilak and Sir Gawain fought back to back against magic and nonmagical foes alike, but the Green Knight could not prevent his former foe from falling.

Then there was the Dementor. It was the first of its kind, one of Salazar's new secrets, a wholly dark creation. A pall fell over the battlefield when it appeared, on both sides. It was under Slytherin's command, and it was headed straight for Arthur. Mordred turned from Arthur to those who surrounded him, cutting a clean path for the Dementor. Perceval attempted to stop him, but Mordred had silenced him with a spell before he uttered even a word. We did not know what the Dementor was doing when it pulled Arthur's face towards its hood with its wet, skeletal fingers. He was still alive, when the Dementor retreated. It wasn't until I inspected him that I realized what had happened. By then, it had done the same to Launcelot, and Godric.

Desperate, I went to Helga, and together we wove a wall into the air which surrounded Hogwarts. We spent the rest of the day warding it. I used every spell I knew, and then began to invent new ones. Vivienne took Perceval back to Galahad through her secret water passages, and the rest began to make their new homes within the castle. I spent my days inventing wards to prevent Slytherin from returning. Helga had gone to the Forbidden Forest to make an alliance with the Unicorns. When Vivienne returned, she brought me Launcelot's ring.

"Perhaps I should give it to Guinevere, but she is in no danger. It is you who will face Slytherin when the time comes, so you must have it," she said quietly, and I took it. Better that Guinevere should have had it. By the time the wall came down, years later, we discovered that everyone who remained at Arthur's court was dead.

We grew old, within our walls. We grew quiet. We could do nothing but wait, and outside the walls of Hogwarts the common world slowly festered, and we did not even know. It became a school again. We had no choice. Learning was all we had. We learned how to drive back the Dementor, with the word "Patronus". We learned how to kill them, with the word "Sunortap." The former required happiness; the latter innocence. Only three in the world possessed that, and they were searching for the Grail. We could not reach them. Godric was gone; Helga retreated into the forest permanently; I retreated into myself. It was up to our former students to run the school. The nonmagical people who had participated in the battle learned magic alongside the magical folk; the magical folk learned the art of swords and battle alongside the nonmagic. We thought these things may one day be of use. We were wrong. The end was simple.

Vivienne disappeared into the lake one day, and returned with my son. It occurred to me that Launcelot had never known him for who he was, and I was saddened at this. Galahad had found the Grail in the end. Bors had been killed, and Perceval driven to madness, convinced he might have saved Arthur if only he had managed to speak a spell. When the Grail finally appeared to him, Galahad's long journey was over, and that seed of unbreakable innocence in him was planted in sorrow and hardship. I could see that he now realized that he was more a product than an individual. He had not made himself; I had, and not for him, but for the needs of the world. Now he had the Grail, he had no more purpose, and could see that his purpose had never been his own. The cup was still full of the blood Salazar had filled it with; to the last Galahad would not kill. His duty done, the walls we had placed around Hogwarts fell, and he departed for another journey, one with neither destination nor function. I never saw him again, in this world or any other.

I went into the forest, walking along the river that feeds into the lake. I wanted to be alone when I destroyed Salazar's shield of blood. I walked a long time. I walked along the last of the white afternoon light, until it left me and my innocence some ways behind. The night washed over me and reminded me of my youth and deception and capacity for hunger. I did not stop until the morning bloomed red in the sky, and promised a new world. Then I knelt by the river and emptied the contents of the Grail into it, and washed it with the water and my hands. I spent a long time washing it, filling it with the clear water and emptying it again. It did not seem as though water belonged in the Grail. A shadow fell over me as I washed it.

"Thrice met, Salazar," I whispered. "You know the power of this number."

He said nothing, and I stood, discarding the Grail by the rocks. I had once done his bidding, and once turned against him, and many had paid the price for both. I had not seen him for many years. Old as he was, he looked very young. There was no wicked smile, and there was no cool mask. I saw his real face, because he had forgotten, seeing me with his cup, how to hide it. He looked as though he had made a very long journey only to have forgotten what his destination was supposed to be. He looked lost. "You would kill me, Rowena?" he asked, calling me by the first name he knew me by.

"I would do much, Salazar," I replied softly.

"I only wanted—" but he did not finish, because he did not know any longer what he wanted. So he raised his wand, and spoke the killing curse against me, but it did nothing, since I wore the ring of my son's father. Salazar realized this. He looked up, to the changing sky that had acted as my godfather, and then he nodded, at what thought or provocation I never knew. He knelt before me, his last day, and submitted. He did not fight until the last, or struggle to overcome these new odds. Perhaps he was brave; perhaps he redeemed himself. I do not know. Certainly of all the things I might have done, he did not expect this. I returned his curse to him, and he died a magical death, and I built a pyre by the river for him. After burning him, I submitted his ashes to the night sky. I knew my godfather would keep him so that he could not resurrect in the realm of Faery.

The Grail was interred in the Hogwarts grounds, into the cavern in which the boy named Ambrosia had revealed two dragons fighting. Once, we had all stood around the cavern, together, with our students, and Hogwarts had seemed just a trifle, the Faery land close by, and much to do, and much to learn. It seemed a fitting place to inter the Grail, with the two dragons dead. No one saw us do it; no one knew of the Grail's location but Helga and I. Still, many knew of the Grail.

In the end, Salazar won. Taking the Grail from him caused a curtain to fall on all of us. The magical forests were suddenly constrained, so that all the magical creatures they contained could not leave them, and so that no one without magic could enter them. The centaurs no longer had their freedom. The unicorns and the dragons no longer had their sentience. The giants no longer had the written word. The merpeople's language became incomprehensible. In such a way, each of the five great kingdoms was reduced, as a penalty for not giving Salazar everything he had demanded of them. Faery disappeared forever, severed permanently from us by a border I had never myself managed. Once its queen, I could now never return to it. And in order to keep the Grail a secret, we had secrets of our own to keep. We had to keep our affairs secret from the nonmagic among us. The realities of the old days turned to stories, and then to dust. He had ensured that, if we killed him, if we won the final battle, that the act would win his war. It is no mistake that science grew so well in this twice barren land.

The only thing that tied the old world to the new was that occasionally, in a world without magic, in an utterly normal family, a magical child would be born.


	5. Chapter 5

More stuff you haven't read yet! I can't believe I'm still on a roll. Punkdpanda56—I'll only pay for it if you lend me the money. Promise I'll pay you back. TheCrescentMoonLover—thanks again for the spot. SadStephen—thank you very much for continuing. The more I write the more this seems like an extension of ETSCBM than an appendage. Hope it turns out that way, at least.

.((0)).

Hermione sat back in shock. The crime that had been done to magical creatures was greater than she knew, and the blame lay at the feet of Salazar Slytherin. Not to mention Rowena Ravenclaw, who had murdered her fair share of centaurs. No wonder they hated wizards so much. They, of all those former Inhuman Empires, were the most conscious of their loss. But to think that dragons and unicorns were once capable of rational thought! It was as reducing a human to animal form.

"My God, it is possible," said Hermione, thinking of Allistaire Avery's dragon. Of course dragons could talk, they were once sentient. The animal-brained dragons of their world were the aberrations, not this one. Her mind, which only a few days ago had been so dry of ideas, immediately began churning.

Now that she knew there was something to look for, there was research to be done. Surely, if unicorns and dragons had once been sentient, there would be evidence of it somewhere in their neuromagicological makeup. Already Hermione was making a list of tomorrow's work in the lab. Definitely call McGonnogal to bring another unicorn into the lab. And there were the mermaids. Giants were as impossible to deal with at St. Mungoes as Dragons; the centaurs would have nothing to do with the project. She'd have to bring Yrllyl back and have a look at the language centers of the brain—it was easier to know where to look with the mermaids, whose intellectual curse was so specific. To think they had once spoken as humans, and now needed special apparatuses to be capable of human speech.

It wasn't just research that dominated Hermione's mind as she lay next to Ron, unable to sleep. Finding evidence of what the creatures of the Inhuman Empires had once been, that was once thing. She could use her abilities to bring magical creatures something much better than legal freedoms. She could give them back what she'd lost.

Dragons and unicorns with brains, centaurs with freedom to go where they pleased—it was a dangerous thought. Certainly the Statute of Secrecy could never hold up under that kind of assault—but then, the Statute of Secrecy had its origins under Slytherin. Why should she think of protecting it? When she thought about it, Hermione realized that with the Statute of Secrecy fallen, freedom for all those magical creatures who did not have it, would be undeniable.

She smiled to herself, lying in the comfort of The Burrow. Imagine, to do something that big, to overthrow the very Statute of Secrecy and allow the world she had been born into to mix with the world she had entered at eleven. It made the invention of the Telebrain pale in comparison. She fell asleep to the lullabye that those who dream of changing the world hear.

.((0)).

"I can tell this is going to be utterly mad," said Terry, sitting down at his desk in the office foyer. "I could hear it in your voice on the Telebrain."

"I can see it in your eyes," said Padma, sipping her tea.

"It is. It is barking mad," said Hermione, who after three hours of sleep and an equal number of cups of coffee, could barely stay inside her skin. "I don't even know how to begin to explain. But this is—" she gestured at the Impcap Wing, grinning at what they'd built over the past few years. "You have no idea how important our field is about to become."

Terry and Padma both looked startled. "Hermione, you're not going to get Harryish on us, are you?"

"Terry, I assure you, if I am anything today I am Merlinish." She took out the two stacks of papers she'd copied from Ravenclaw's manuscript. "This is an account of Rowena Ravenclaw's life, by her own hand. You'll have to read it before I can begin to make myself clear." She handed Terry and Padma both copies, Padma reaching eagerly for hers. "I'm going to talk to McGonnagal to get Yryll and a unicorn to the lab as soon as possible. By the time you finish reading I hope you'll know why."

Padma looked up from her reading to quirk an eyebrow at her. Hermione ignored and went to the fireplace to speak to McGonnagal.

Within an hour, Yryll was there, the unicorn was on its way under the care of Hagrid, and both Terry and Padma had finished reading their copies of the story. They looked slightly more alarmed than they had during their earlier meeting.

"So," said Terry. "I'm assuming that the pertinent aspects of this story are the ones to do with these Inhuman Empires?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Do you think that Allistaire's dragon could be—I dunno, a really old dragon, or an exception to the spell, or—"

"Hermione, are you sure this is real?" interrupted Padma.

"Very," said Hermione, unwilling to reveal that a loss of memory and a vision of Tom Riddle were involved in her certainty of reality.

"All right," Padma said, looking doubtful. "Let's say it does. It doesn't account for Allistaire's dragon. Whatever spell Salazar Slytherin used to cause the creatures of the Inhuman Empires to change—it's unlikely there would be any exception to the spell, especially considering we haven't heard of any other case. And the dragon couldn't predate the spell—Slytherin cursed all of the creatures already existing. There's absolutely no way to account for it."

"The Faer Land," said Hermione simply.

"Yes, of course!" said Terry triumphantly. "No, I'm joking, how does the Faer Land explain it?"

"Who says that Slytherin's spell affected the creatures within the Faer Land? The intention behind the spell was to divide the magical and muggle worlds outside of the Faer Land—there's no reason for the spell to take hold within the Faer Land."

"Yes, but this account, also says he established an unbreakable boundary between the Faer Land and ours," said Padma reasonably.

"We don't know how unbreakable it is, only that the Founders never managed to break it."

"Hermione—"

"I know, it's unlikely. However, there's nothing in that story that says it's impossible for things in the Faer land to get out. The Gates were shut to Ravenclaw and everyone in our world. There's no reason to shut the gates to the inhabitants of the Faer Land."

Padma furrowed her brows. "That's _possible_, but—"

"Padma, how many things are out there that even wizards can't explain? Luna's creatures, this dragon—Lord Voldemort's immortality. It's got to be the Faer Land. It would account for a lot of things in the muggle world, as well."

Hermione had known her appeal to cryptozoology would be successful. Padma's brows were still furrowed, but she looked half-convinced.

"And now," said Terry, "comes the Harryish bit."

Padma looked up. "Oh no. You want to reverse it, don't you?"

Terry stared. "Merlin, you're right."

"Sentient dragons, Hermione?"

"Stop," she said. "That's not what I want." That was exactly what she wanted, but they didn't need to know that yet. "I want to research. If we can find proof of Salazar Slytherin's spell, think of what it could do for magical creature rights."

Padma and Terry just looked at her, unconvinced.

"All right. Maybe I would like to reverse the spell on the unicorns," she admitted.

"Ten galleons that if you reverse the spell for one, you reverse the spell for all," said Terry.

"It would be nice to have sentient unicorns, though," said Padma.

"Even finding out what the spell was would be an historical discovery," said Hermione.

"This text is historical," said Padma, pointing at her stack of papers. "Have you been to the Ministry with it?"

"Actually," said Hermione, "I'd like to keep it a secret for now. It's nothing to do with any—there's something else that I'd like to sort out before I let this become public knowledge."

"What?" said Terry.

"I can't tell you."

"Hermione."

"Terry. I can't. I'm sorry. It's nothing to do with the research, or the dragon. Once I sort it out, I'll let you know. I promise."

"Ten galleons Harry Potter is involved," muttered Terry under his breath.

"Yryll is here," said Hermione, choosing to ignore his last statement. "Let's get to work."

.((0)).

The area around St. Mungo's was lined with market streets and tailors, so when Hermione left her shift she decided to make her purchase before returning to the Burrow. The really annoying thing about Charity galas was you could never wear the same clothing twice, especially considering Fleur was almost always there and had a photographic memory for fashion.

Considering how little time she devoted to finding a dress, Hermione was very happy with her purchase. It was a pale amethyst color—the color had caught her eyes before anything, and blinded her to the imperfections of the dress itself, which was a bit fussier than she liked—she removed a series of ruffles at the shoulders when she was back at the Burrow.

Fleur and Victoire launched themselves at her almost as soon as she returned. Despite her best efforts, Hermione found herself trapped in the loo, Fleur in front of her, Victoire to the side. Before she knew it, she was rouged, her hair tamed, her earlobes uncomfortable under the weight of Fleur's grandmother's earrings, her neck suffocated by her grandmother's amethyst-and-pearl choker, and pronounced bootiful.

When she emerged, Ginny cast her a look of amused triumph. "I knew they'd never let you get out of the house without any make-up on. That's pretty—is it from a Muggle shop?"

"Yes. Although I could do without the sequins."

"I can't wait to see Ron's face when he sees you."

"I just hope Fleur's not in the room so he doesn't get confused."

Ginny laughed. "Well, at least he's managed to stop actually drooling at the sight."

"Why is it you have the boyfriend who can control himself?"

"Probably to make up for the fact that I had to deal with seven uncontrollable brothers."

"Yes, you're right. That does seem perfectly fair."

"Chocolate egg?"

Hermione took it and bit into it gratefully. "Is there coffee?"

"I can make some."

The door suddenly burst open, and Ron crashed into the burrow, banging his knee on a couch as he walked forwards. Harry came in behind him, still in his work clothes, which weren't dissimilar to his regular clothes. "You look gorgeous enough to make me forget I'm hungry," said Ron to Hermione, placing an arm around her and dipping her in a stage kiss. He returned her to an upright position. "Ooh, chocolate eggs." He took one.

"Har har."

"I have news for you." He took the diary out from his cloak. There was a hole in it, the paper on the interior of the hole stained with ink. "The diary is dead again."

"Oh, no! Ron, how could you?"

"With a basilisk tooth, obviously. What do you mean how could I? You're safe."

"Thank you, but now there's no means of discovering how the avatar was restored—or at least, what spell did it. And who knows what the diary means, if there's a dark wizard responsible—"

"Hermione, there was no choice," said Harry. "Your safety is a priority."

"You could have just kept the diary away from me."

"Do you remember writing in the diary before you were possessed?"

"No. Did you do any tests at all on it before you destroyed it?"

"Quite a few. The results were inconclusive."

Hermione sat down and crossed her arms.

"Third year. Firebolt."

She looked up at Harry crossly.

"This is my revenge."

"Oh, you are completely intolerable. You'd better get ready for the Summit before Fleur and Victoire try to kidnap and rouge you."

.((0)).

They took Hermione's car to Netherhouse, a manor owned but rarely lived in by Bellonia Zabini. The Ministry often hosted its meetings at half-used houses such as this.

The ride was mostly silence. Hermione was still chewing on the matter of the diary. She felt almost as if Harry was beginning to work at cross-purposes to her. It wasn't as though she didn't sense the gravity of his secret. She was the first person who saw him come back. Ever since then, it had felt like she half-owned it, even if she didn't know its contents. She knew it was something to do with her, and even though she still couldn't begin to think of what that was, now she must know. She had a feeling it was vital to what was happening now, that what was happening now was going to grow into something bigger, basilisk tooth or no.

She chanced a sideways glance at Harry. She knew perfectly well he meant it for her own good. He just didn't understand what an insidious thing her curiosity was once she allowed it to be unlocked. If Harry was going to put obstacles in her way, she would simply have to go around them.

They arrived at the perfect time; they were late enough to miss the preliminary speeches and a photographer-filled entrance, always a danger for Harry. Nearly the first person they saw was Neville Longbottom, who immediately supplied them with mead. He began to discuss the latest bill of interest to C.R.A.P., which would restrict werewolf hunting in order to prevent killing innocent werewolves—Luna was still working on the legal definition of an innocent werewolf. As if drawn by the subject matter, Remus Lupin appeared.

"I was just speaking with Luna, actually. She says that free dispensation of wolfsbane potion is vital to establishing the parameters of and innocent werewolf's legal identity."

"Yes, I've talked with her about it. It's a good idea, and I've been meaning to set up a fund—if the Ministry won't provide it, perhaps we can privately do so."

"Pity it's so expensive to brew."

"You can count me in for a donation," said Harry. More particularly to Hermione, he said, "Remind me when you've set everything up."

After Mabon, the Slytherin dungeons, giving the creatures of the Five Inhuman Empires all that had been lost to them, and discovering what had passed the night Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore died, she thought to herself, and decided immediately to delegate the task to one of C.R.A.P.'s members.

Hermione's mind was busy attacking all of these issues as Neville and Harry discussed the Channon's chances this season with Ginny as seeker. She spotted Luna's bright hair through a throng of people and made her way over after pardoning herself from the quartet. She wound her way through the crowd, accepting a glass of wine on her way over.

Luna was speaking to a fellow lawyer. "Oh, I'm sure it was wickles that are responsible for the damage to Mr. Garland's room. Mr. Harris is quite innocent, I assure you." The lawyer was listening with barely restrained skepticism and looked glad for an excuse to be away when Hermione approached.

"Hello, Luna."

"Oh, hello Hermione. Why are you wearing a necklace of nargle eggs?"

Hermione had long since learned to avoid argument with Luna. It was pointess, and sometimes she turned out to be right. "Oh, I thought suited my dress."

"They do, actually. It's very surprising how many things look nice as jewelery. This is a lovely mansion, don't you think? Do you know it used to belong to Jebediah Prow?"

"Who's that?"

"Oh, an inventor, and a—the word you use, a cryptozoologist. He discovered heliotropes and gigglypicks and bellbringers. Also, he invented the first perpetual stillness machine. They say there's a mirror to the Faer Land in his room, only it's been closed off."

It took Hermione a moment to distinguish the last piece of information in the midst of the other nonsense. "Wait. Luna. You know the Faer Land?"

"Oh, do you know it too? You're usually so silly about these things."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"Oh, yes. People have been trying to find a way into the Faer Land for ages. They're called the Merchants of Chaos and they wear purple wristbands to show their solidarity to the cause."

Hermione paused as she took this in. "I suppose no one's found it yet?"

"No, no. They've found things that might be ways in, but it's all blocked off. Like the mirror. No one knows why."

"Slytherin," said Hermione.

Luna said nothing, merely waited in an interested manner for the information.

"Salazar Slytherin."

"Oh, did he do it? How?"

"That's just the thing. I'm not sure. It has something to do with his death, I think. He was immortal, and when the Founders managed to break the spell it activated another, which, among other things, divided the Faer Land from ours. Huh." Hermione's mind rolled back to the passages about the Grail and Slytherin's immortality. Perhaps the mystery of Voldemort's immortality had received an important clue.

"That's interesting. I would wager Voldemort used the same thing to make himself immortal. I wonder if Slytherin got young when he died, too?" Hermione stared at her. It was amazing how, among so much practically imaginary facts and conspiracies which pervaded Luna's speech, she could home right into the truth with so little prompting.

"I was only just beginning to think that. You might be right. And if you're right, it will be absolutely incredible, because I know what Salazar Slytherin used to make himself immortal."

"Oh, really? Was it the Everliving Tooth?"

"No." Hermione paused for a moment, determined not to ask what exactly the Everliving Tooth was. "He used the Holy Grail. From the tales of King Arthur."

"Who's that?"

"King Arthur? How can you not know about King Arthur?"

"Oh, is it a muggle fairy tale?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. But Merlin is in it, I would assume witches and wizards knew the tale."

"What is Merlin doing in a muggle fairy tale?"

Hermione was silent for a moment, thinking. "You say there's a mirror to the Faer Land here?"

"Oh, yes in the exposition hall of the West Wing. You just go down that corridor, turn left, and it's the last room on the right. I looked at it half an hour ago, but it's quite closed."

Hermione nodded. Enough of Luna's peculiar theories and strange animals had proven to be true that Hermione would be foolish not to explore this mirror. And, she had to admit, Luna hadn't been in Ravenclaw for nothing; she had a nose for the unlikely truths buried under certain appearances. "Luna, there's something I'd very much like you to look at. Unfortunately, I don't have it with me now, but I'd like you to see if you can make out anything I haven't been able to."

"Does it have to do with the Faer Land?"

"The Faer Land, the Founders, and magical creatures, in fact." Hermione glanced at the corridor that led to the exposition hall. "Shall I drop by your offices tomorrow?"

"Oh, yes. Why don't you come for tea? My father just gave me some fresh. It's very good for the digestion."

"I can imagine. Unfortunately, I'm allergic. But I will stop by for tea."

"Oh, look, her comes Blaise."

Hermione turned, momentarily praying for him to be alone. The Annual Ministry Charity Summit was all networking and rubbing noses, the sort of event Draco Malfoy was never absent from. Her prayers were not answered.

"Nice dress, Granger. You look like a walking bruise. Lovely, really. It reminds me of that shiner Weasely gave you sixth year, remember?"

Hermione stared at him for a moment. "Sometimes replying to you is impossible."

"Struck dumb by my wit?"

"More like your breath," she replied. "Listerine may be a muggle invention, but it works wonders."

"Fascinating as this repartee _always_ is," said Blaise, "I actually do have a purpose in speaking."

"The Avery boy?"

"Yes, actually. The tests we ran on a biopsy of the burned skin are inconclusive. It is a dragon burn, but it doesn't match any known species."

"Interesting," said Hermione.

"Really? I expected you to be disappointed."

She gave him a calculating look, unwilling to reveal anything to Blaise in front of Draco. "Let's discuss it tomorrow at work."

Blaise gave her a knowing look. "Is all discussion limited to Ministry affairs here?"

"Pleasantries and politics," agreed Hermione.

"And how does C.R.A.P. do?" he asked of Luna. He actually pronounced the letters of the organization rather than the unfortunate anagram. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Oh, very well," said Luna. "I think we'll have success with the werewolf hunting bill."

"Fenrir Greyback will be happy to hear it," said Draco.

"Oh, no, under the bill he'll certainly be subject to hunting. As well as the limitation there's cart blanche to kill all werewolves who've purposely turned anyone."

Draco had no answer to this, and merely shook his head.

"Well, I wish you ladies continued success," put in Blaise, looking ready to depart.

"I had no idea C.R.A.P. concerned you," said Hermione.

"My mother's a vampire, you know," said Blaise conversationally. "Ever since after I was born." He slanted his sloping eyes towards her. "I've been a contributor to C.R.A.P. for years now." With a nod, he and Draco departed.


	6. Chapter 6

Blindfaithoperadiva—well, here's your mirror, right away. TheCrescentMoonWriter—oh, don't worry about the diary, there's better things than that out there. Also, I'll probably get into what went down between Ginny and Tom in a few chapters. SailorHecate—thanks so much for troubling to review every chapter. It was very kind of you. Luna was harder to write than I thought she was going to be. But I love her, so I'll try to have a bit more of her in there. And the mystery you already know—it is really strange, isn't it? It's strange writing it. I wonder if it's been done anywhere else? As for your distrust of her promise to the diary… well, even though the diary's out, you'll see a bit of a reappearance of Tom in the next chapter.

.((0)).

The exhibition hall was long, narrow, and ill-lit towards its end. On the wall at the end, hung a mirror. It shone, a small but peculiar circle of light and color that did not belong inside a mirror at the end of a vacant and dark corridor. Out of curiosity she advanced immediately towards it. She walked at a reasonable enough pace, fixing the mirror in her view, as though if she were to let it out of her sight it would be normal again. The mirror seemed to enlarge as she drew closer to it, but that might have been a trick of the wine. Still, by the time she reached it she couldn't be unsure that it was full length now, and that it hadn't been before. 

Before her was a bright blue and green little world. In the middle of a thatch of trees was a fountain, gold, with bands all about it reflecting the sky. It rose in a column divided into elegant curves and ornaments. Clear water ran from it. She could hear it. After a moment she realized she could smell it, the grass and water. She was very close to the mirror, and she had a funny feeling that there was no glass between herself and the depiction, no barrier at all.

A reflection appeared in the mirror, a ghostly image in clear distinction to the rest of the scene. She turned immediately, just registering a last footstep. She turned in exasperation. "Malfoy? You? Again? Now?" She turned back to the mirror. The scene was blessedly still there.

"What are you doing with that mirror?"

Hermione put her hand up. She just had to see whether her intuition was right, that there was no barrier. She extended her finger. She watched them extend, farther and farther into the field. She watched her hand enter the field in fascination before hastily drawing it back.

"Did you just—is that a mirror?"

She turned to see him walking towards her, and also the mirror. She rolled her eyes. He was sure to try to ruin the discovery in some way. She stood in front of the mirror, her arms crossed. "Listen, Malfoy—"

A surprised look crossed his face. And then she realized he was looking behind her. Suddenly there was a cold, wet hand around her mouth and another hand around her waist and it was drawing her backwards, incredibly fast. She was inside the mirror before she knew it, born away by something she couldn't see. Draco, shockingly, was also entering the mirror world. Whatever creature that carried her dropped her. She looked up to see a creature covered with some kind of blue mold, which progressed even into its matted hair. Its skin looked leathery and waterlogged. It was headed for Draco now, and she screamed. At the same time, she pulled her wand from her pocket and shot a Stunning Spell at it, which worked astoundingly well, knocking the creature off its feet halfway in between herself and Draco.

She stood up, and so did Draco, who had also fallen. "It came out of the fountain. Very, very quickly." he said.

"That creature is vile." She inspected her dress, and then the fountain. "I'd rather like to see what this is all about."

"Typical Gryffindor idiocy."

She gave her surroundings a last glance, full of interest, calculation, and recording. "I suppose we should be back before we should be missed."

"Yes. Right. Exactly. Let's get out of here before any other dodgy monsters come out of hiding." 

Hermione started to follow him up an inclined glade.

"That creature was so fast. If it had kept you I think you'd be dead."

"Yeah, thanks, actually. That was strangely decent of you."

Draco stopped abruptly in front of her. "Oh, hell," said Draco.

"What?" asked Hermione. Looking up to where he was looking, she had her answer immediately, but Draco elaborated anyway.

"The mirror's not there any more."

Hermione folded her arms, and considered the possibilities, but wasn't very alarmed. She had her own suspicions about the way the Faer Land worked.

"You complete _idiot_," seethed Draco. "Don't you know not to go poking into old mirrors? No, of course you don't, you're a muggle, sorry, mudblood, sorry, muggle-spawned or whatever's the politest way of putting it these days."

"Do you know where we are?"

"How can I? You never know what a mirror is—could be the mirror of Erised, or a two-way to someone vile, or a demon, or a portal—which is clearly what this is, but I don't know where to. That's why you don't go poking into old mirrors."

The fountain in front of them was no longer flowing with water. Instead it was brimming with fire. She pointed it out to Draco and backed away from it. It seemed colder somehow, the sky whiter. Then the fountain was a burning tree. 

"Oh no," moaned Draco. The fire had abated, had become a jewel, the jewel became a liquid and began to flow towards them. "Granger, what's the matter with you? Surely you must have some idea how to get out of here? Come now, this is the sort of thing you're supposed to be good at."

Hermione gave him a withering look. "I'm curious about this place."

Draco returned her withering glance. He bent, picked up a stone, flourished it momentarily at her, and threw it at the liquid. As soon as it touched the moving puddle, it broke into a dozen butterflies. "See? Do you want that to happen to us?"

"Oh, right." She gave him a considering glance. She was smiling, which Draco didn't like one bit. "I suppose you don't know how to leave?" 

"Oh, Merlin save me, I'm trapped in some kind of chaos dimension, and you think it's interesting."

"It is."

"Why?"

"It seems like a place I've heard about very recently."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she replied in a satisfied way. 

They were now crowned by throngs of humming bees, which made Draco crouch uncomfortably and cover his face. It was clear she wouldn't be forthcoming. "I can't believe you don't know how to get out of here."

"Oh, I do. It's the sort of thing I'm good at."

"What?" he cried. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I have a favor to extract from you."

He stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. "Are you going to make me run some embarrassing errand on the behalf of your idiotically-named little animal shelter party?"

"No. I want you to help me find something in the Slytherin Dungeons. I want Professor Snape's help, too. I'm not sure he'd help me, but he'd help you. And he's likelier to know than anyone, with his obsession with the Dark Arts and long residency."

Draco eyed her, and then the bees, which were now flies, actually. They coalesced into a dark cloud, out of which a dark substance, not rain, began to pour. "O.K.," he said hurriedly. "Anything. Just get us out before we die or turn into mushrooms or something."

Hermione took his hand, pointed her wand towards her head, and said. "Leaky Cauldron. Remember the three D's."

Draco gave a look of suffering upon the revelation of their method of escape, probably because of how easily he should have thought of it and got out of making a promise to Hermione Granger. As Hermione was about to utter the incantation, as Draco was just beginning to, she took a last look at the Faer Land and saw a figure there. He was tall, and dark haired. Although he was standing in the shadow of a leaning rock that had come out of the ground, Hermione could see he was wearing Hogwarts Robes. Then, so as not to splinch, she turned along with Draco on the end of his incantation. The Faer Land disappeared.

.((0)).

Harry, being the good Auror that he was, managed to find a likely person to enquire about Alicia Silversmith—Blaise Zabini, who was really surprisingly polite. He told Harry, with a rather disdainful disposition, that she was actually at the party, sitting down with her grandson. Harry asked what she looked like, and Blaise arched an eyebrow, knowing exactly what he was about but not caring. "She's completely white. You'll pick her right out." Harry thanked him and walked through the room in search of her. 

It must be said how much Hermione's interests were in Harry's heart. He was sure, being in superior knowledge to everyone else, and obligated to hide it from them by the dying wish of—Hermione herself, that it fell entirely upon him to solve. He had taken care of the diary, which he was sure to have been resuscitated by Alicia Silversmith, and now he would take care of her. He knew perfectly well that she very likely had known the other Hermione, very likely had some reason to choose her for some scheme. 

It was after a few moments strolling about the room that he found her, sitting in a graceful two-chair separated sofa with a dark-haired young man Harry took to be her grandson.

Harry approached slowly. He hated using his fame to get unofficial interviews from people, but it was an indispensible tool, especially with unapproachable purebloods like this. He could see the woman change position as she saw him walking over to her, and as soon as he was within speaking range, she greeted him in a very precise, proper voice.

"Mr. Potter, you are known to all, as you know. Good evening."

"Yes, um. Hello, Mrs. Silversmith. I wonder if I could have a word with you?"

"Certainly. Whatever about?"

"Well, would you mind if I take your grandson's seat for the duration?"

She gave him the kind of shocked look that only the very rich are capable of. Harry stuffed his hands in the jacket of his dress robes in a sort of defensive gesture. Then she inclined her head, and whispered something to her son, who had been staring curiously at Harry all this time. He nodded at his grandmother, and pressed her arm quickly, before he stood and left. Harry watched him off a while before he spoke.

"I heard about your grandson. Sorry to hear about it."

"Are you going to ask me about this fantastical business about the talking dragon?" Upon close appearance, it was clear that Alicia Silversmith had been a great beauty, easily equal to Fleur Delacour. It was a well preserved and gracefully aged beauty. 

"No, no." Harry sat there for a moment, wondering what to say.

She waited a moment, and then said, rather impatiently, "Then what?"

"Erm, how do you find the Impcap Wing?"

She gave him a penetrating and weary look. "Dreadful."

"Oh." He looked at his hands. "I have a friend who works there."

"Oh? The Zabini boy I suppose?"

"No, no. Dr. Granger."

There was a sudden cool flicker of recognition in her face, and Harry rejoiced. "The mediwitch?"

"Uh—yes. More into research, really, than anything."

"I've heard she's muggleborn."

Harry gave her a disapproving stare.

"I'm sure your boy-hero disapprobation is often quite effective, Mr. Potter, but you'll find me quite unashamed of my opinions. I have reasons to distrust the muggleborn."

"Oh?" he said rather tightly, knowing that any information might be pertinent, much as he'd like not to hear it.

She gave him a measuring glance. "Harry Potter, raised in a perfectly normal, perfectly awful muggle home. How was it to enter a world more fantastic than even in your dreams, only to find you were regarded as a hero?"

Harry ducked his head. "It was a bit embarrassing, really."

She smiled. "I believe you. But you've never considered how it must be for those like your friend. Raised in a perfectly normal, perfectly awful muggle home. How do you think it was for her to enter a world more fantastic even than in her dreams, only to find that most of its inhabitants were in a superior position to her? How do you think it was for her to be surrounded by people who knew every last little peculiarity of the wizarding world, by people to whom it was their home, by people who knew that it _was not hers_? She wouldn't merely want to catch up with them. Oh, no, that never does for the muggleborn, to prove yourself equal. That doesn't make up for the initial feelings of inferiority. Always they must prove themselves better."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment. She was right. He hadn't ever considered what it was like for the muggleborn. He may have been raised in the muggle world, but he was pureblood, was well-regarded before he was even aware of it. And Hermione was so good at enduring everything—she never flinched at the term mudblood, never seemed to pay any mind to pureblood disapproval. He'd never considered what it actually felt like.

And the woman's description was eerily accurate. Hermione had never been driven to prove herself equal of her peers. She strove for superiority.

"I know a lot of muggleborns that don't fit that description," he said, finally.

"And your friend?"

Harry said nothing.

"Don't mistake me. I was never one of those imbeciles who supported Lord Voldemort. I'm quite aware of the impossibility of allowing the muggleborns to themselves in the muggle world. They must be trained, to avoid danger. However, you will allow me my distrust."

"Do you—distrust Dr. Granger?"

"Again with the Dr," she sighed, and then said, almost as if to herself: "You don't know who your friend is. You don't really know her at all. You don't know what she did."

She turned away from him, face regally inclined away from him, her unsettling pink eyes half-lidded and disinterested.

"You're wrong," said Harry, in a heated tone that made her turn to him and consider him again.

.((0)).

"I knew it," said Hermione as she and Draco walked into the Leaky Cauldron. "I knew it would be easier to get out than in."

"Oh, I don't know," said Draco in a dry tone. "I'd say we got in pretty easily."

"Well, it's purported to be impossible."

Draco stared at her in outrage. "You knew what it was the entire time?"

Hermione stood still for a moment. She hadn't expected him to pick up on that. "Well, yes."

"What is it?"

Hermione just gave him a quick, dismissive glance, and went to the bar.

"You realize we're still in out dress robes, don't you?"

"I just want some water. I'm thirsty."

Draco stood grudgingly by while Hermione ordered her water, and she wondered why he bothered. He needed no chaperone to the floo. She took her drink quickly, in silence the whole time. 

Hermione stood up, and Draco jumped off his chair in desperation to leave the bar. "When do we meet tomorrow?" she asked as she followed him to the fireplace. 

Draco turned around with an uncomprehending expression. "What?" 

"Tomorrow. To find what I need to in the Slytherin dungeons."

"You can't be serious."

"It's Saturday. It's very easy to contact Professor Snape in the morning and arrange to have a look around in the afternoon."

Draco looked considerate for a few moments before a sneer formed on his lips. "Well, Hermione, promises are sometimes more expedient to break than to keep. Next time you want a favor from me you'll have to try a bit harder." His sneer had grown into a self-satisfied smile at the end of his sentence. 

Hermione regarded him coolly. "I'll try to learn from your advice, Malfoy, I promise. Shall we go?"

"Finally," said Draco, reaching for the floo powder.

Her wand was out in a moment. "Murisitus!"

Draco turned just as she pronounced her spell, entirely insensible. He began to rapidly shrink, his features contracting as he dissemble, until he was a rat. He ran around at her feet in terror. Hermione picked him up quickly. "Tell me when you change your mind," she said.

The rat flailed about in a fury, squeaking madly. Hermione dropped it into the clothes it had left behind in its transformation and made another incantation. She turned away as the rat returned to Draco's form.

"Granger! I will get you for this, I swear on—on—"

"Say we meet at 1 o'clock?" replied Hermione with a note of warning in her tone.

"You turned me into a rat!"

"And now you're naked in public. I'm terrible, aren't I?" She picked up a handful of floo powder. "See you tomorrow," she said, throwing the floo powder into the fire and saying, very clearly, "Netherfield Manse."

.((0)).

The words were almost ripped out of him, and he regretted his tone for a moment. Harry looked at Mrs. Silversmith, and knew in an instant she knew. He'd never met anyone who knew. Mrs. Alicia Avery Silversmith turned around, one pale eyebrow arched.

"Oh?" she asked, the word drawn out, her mouth perfectly round.

"I know what she did," he said, hating himself for saying it as he said it, but saying it in order to get more information out of this woman. "I know why you know her and she doesn't know you.

"Do you?" she asked, appraising him. "Do you know everything that she did?"

"No. Not everything."

She drew her lips into a long line that was neither a frown or a smile. When Harry followed her gaze he saw Hermione's tousled brown curls as she walked briskly through the cloud, followed by Draco Malfoy. "You don't know she was Tom Riddle's lover." It was a statement, and when it was finished her lips were definitely smiling. She turned her eyes back on him to see the effect.

The damage was evident. Harry had never been good at hiding his expressions. There had been something strange, that evening, something strange about Tom Riddle coming willingly into the school with Hermione, about Hermione's reaction to his death and resolution to die afterwards. He had wondered, it had occurred to him, but he had never let himself truly consider it. He could tell this woman was telling the truth.

"She didn't want him to get killed," he whispered wonderingly to himself.

"No," said Alicia. "But I suppose he was killed anyway."

"Yes," said Harry. "He was."

"You were there, weren't you? When she returned to do what she was going to do?"

"What—" Harry stopped himself, wondered if it was right to go so far, but in the end he couldn't help himself. "Do you know what she was going to do?"

"You don't?"

"I know she went back in time because things went wrong. I don't know anything other than that." He was prepared for her to be surprised at the mention of time travel. He was reassured that she accepted, probably knew it already.

"Oh, yes, things went very badly wrong indeed," she said. "You were about to die. And there were all sorts of other dead people. But, you see, when she went back, she discovered that Tom Riddle wasn't quite so guilty as she once believed. Oh, no, he'd merely been playing about with dark magics, with creating avatars, and once of his creations attempted to possess him. So you see, perfectly innocent."

Harry said nothing.

"You see, a combination of ignorance of the wizarding world and an attempt to be better than everyone else—you see what muggleborns are capable of?"

"Grindelwald was a pureblood," he said quickly. "How do you know all this?"

"Veritaserum," she said.

"Hmm. It seems like everybody was perfectly innocent."

"I have never pretended to be innocent. Anyway, I had my reasons."

Harry thought for a moment. "You said something about not getting your memories back—in a note you left."

For the first time, she looked at him with something akin to amazement. "You found it?"

"Hermione did."

"Hermione," she said thoughtfully. "Mione." Here she looked at him. "Potter." She smiled bitterly, regarding her hands. "How idiotic I was not to discover who she was before."

"You've tried?"

Another silence. "Mr. Potter, you perhaps are familiar with the pleasure Tom Riddle took in playing with people's minds. He did so love legilimency and the Imperius and memory charms. He was not the only one." She looked again at Hermione, who was still arguing with Draco Malfoy. "Bad enough she took my memories." She sighed. "Worse that she gave them back to me. She left a Penseive in a trust for me. I remembered nothing, nothing of Tom Riddle, nothing of Mione Potter, other than that they had been at Hogwarts. I didn't connect it at all with my—husband's strange friend. It wasn't until I received the Pensieve that I realized who Lord Voldemort was, and what he meant to do to us."

"Us?"

"The Averies. The Malfoys. The LeStranges. The Rosiers. You will notice their survival rates, especially that first generation of his helpers. Their subservience was never his object so much as their destruction." Harry watched her. She restrained a look of rage and bitterness, but her voice was very soft when she spoke. "I and mine were never among those imbeciles that supported him. But it was too late to do other than that." 


	7. Chapter 7

Ron and Hermione returned to their respective flats the next day

Hey guys, it's been a while since I've updated—like a few days more, no? Well, you're to blame. I think I was looking at Sailor Hecate's profile when I saw a rec for Masters of Manipulation, a T/Hr fic by Nerys. I've spent the past couple days devouring this fic. I am in love with this fic. Anyone who isn't reading it now, should be. Her Tom is SO GOOD. And there are all these crazy revelations, and it's canon-consistent, and it's just so damn good. If you're liking my fic, dude, read this, you'll love it, it's way better. Here's a link: http/

Reviewers: Scarecrow—thanks for reading the one before and also this one. I'm glad you like the mystery—there will be some things that you don't know simply be virtue of reading the last story. Marisa1—Well, I hope you like H's visit to the Dungeons and all, and your wish about Tom will be granted at the end of this chapter. As for what a typical muggleborn's experience is like—yeah, there are two things that I would have loved to be different in the JKR world. The first is the actual effects of not being raising in the wizarding world. I mean, 11 is a bit late to come into it, and in the previous story I had Professor O'Bleeke's theory that if you miss the developmental window you can never really develop your magical skills. Whether real or not, I feel like any muggle-born would feel like they were playing catch-up in the wizarding world. The other thing never done—she never gives muggles their due. She acts like, without magical powers, life is barely worth living. It's just so sad for Squib, and muggles are better off not knowing, and Petunia is all heartbroken not to be magical. She seems to forget we have Einstein and Leonardo and Socrates and all these complete geniuses. And, if you think about it—we got to the moon before the wizards did. Right? Or am I taking this too seriously? Sad Stephen—I hope this story will continue to be interesting. There is some interesting stuff that will come up. Blindfaithoperadiva—Hermione is incorrigible, no? SailorHecate—I'm glad you liked my Alicia. OH! For those of you who asked, the deal with the Penseive is that Hermione, on her last day in the 40's, went and put the Penseive in a trust for Alicia, so she would get a bit of a warning before Lord Voldemort came back into the lives of his followers. The CrescentMoonWriter—you may be right, but I indistinctly recall JKR saying that Harry was technically pureblood because both his parents were wizards; his mother was muggleborn but not a muggle. Quarterblood? Dunno. I'll leave it to the Nazis. Punkdpanda56—so, yeah, I guess that requires a few leaps. Basically, what Harry knows is: Hermione went back in the future, did not seem ecstatic that Tom was dead, and revealed to him that Dumbeldore was evil. Harry probably knows very little about what the story is about Tom and Dumbledore. But he did hear her say things like, "So they're all still alive"—and I think after a couple of years of thinking about it he'd reach the conclusion that she went back in time to prevent a worse future from happening. If nothing more specific than that. Lots of reviewers this time around! Thanks, guys!

Contents

Ron and Hermione returned to their respective flats the next day. Victoire and Prudence returned to Hogwarts, Victoire with unchewable gum in her hair and Prudence with a new broomstick from her Auntie Ginny. Mrs. Weasely was very insistent that everyone eat enough. Hermione drove Harry and Ron to their flat, and had tea with them before she left for hers. Hermione ascended the staircase to her apartment, sorting through her muggle mail, consisting mainly of her muggle world finances. She checked her messages on her Telebrain, a prototype of a newer, more compact prototype, with a Dewey Decimal system of all known spells in Europe. She'd missed Hagrid when he went to St. Mungo's, but the unicorn was there, and several tests had been done. The results were pending. 

As she opened up her refrigerator door for no other reason than to stare vacantly at its contents, an owl arrived. Hermione looked at it. It was a black owl, blue-black, its eyes strangely blue. She wasn't sure of its species, but it was a beautiful bird. She took the envelope from its beak and rummaged in her drawer for a treat. The owl looked disdainfully at it for a moment before accepting it. It haughtily walked to the ledge of her window and flew away. Hermione opened the letter, and wasn't surprised to see Draco Malfoy's signature. It was below the terse message:

Snape's office. 2:30.

Hermione smiled. The Dungeons today, Mabon tomorrow, and when she returned she would be well on her way towards solving the several mysteries that had arisen over the past few days. And after that, she could work towards addressing the wrong done to magical creatures by Salazar Slytherin. And then there was the Faer Land to occupy her attention, that curious place she was sure she had visited the other night.

This began her puzzling over the mirror, and how the boundary between the Faer Land and this world had been broken—if in fact it had been. After all, the boundary had been intact before; there may be another explanation. She went to over to the Telebrain, calling up histories of Jebedia Prow, the magical qualities of mirrors, and, since there was nothing regarding the Faer Land, she called up material on magical forests. Slytherin had bound the centaurs to the magical forests; perhaps it was a clue as to how he'd erected the barrier to the Faer Land.

She already had some theories on the subject. She was sure that, to the inhabitants of the Faer land, there was no boundary, and Allistaire Avery's dragon was just one of those inhabitants. But that mirror—something had opened the gate. Luna had seen the mirror, too, and declared the barrier to be intact. Something had opened it for her—if, she forced herself to think, it had been opened. She had a fair idea of who that someone was. The person who she'd seen last of anything in the Faer Land. Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. She just wasn't sure how he was doing it—or why he would want to reverse what his revered ancestor had put in place. If it was him, if the boundary was broken, if, if, if.

She was uneasy thinking about the warning Alicia Silversmith had left. Perhaps he was back. Ginny thought so. What did it matter what Harry thought, if she couldn't understand the basis of his opinions? She was beginning to grow frustrated with his unwillingness to tell her, especially after he'd become moody and irritable towards the end of the night at the Summit. Surely if she was willing to take the risk of hearing whatever truth was coming to her, she ought to be told.

After making it through one of the texts filed on the Telebrain, Hermione saw the time and hurried to take a quick shower before she left. She wished she'd thought of brewing some coffee, but there wasn't time to drink it now. Hoping Professor McGonnagal was in her office, Hermione pulled on her jacket and left for the Leaky Cauldron. 

.((0)).

Hermione had never considered that her day at Hogwarts would be uncomfortable. But, standing in Snape's office next to a still-angry Draco, Hermione began to regret how heavily she had manhandled her way into the situation. Professor Snape was looking at her with undisguised weariness.

"This is how you would like me to spend my afternoon?" he intoned, his words precisely underlining his disgust as he looked at the map. "Aiding and abetting a Gryffindorish treasure hunt?"

Hermione ignored the look of satisfaction on Draco's face. "It's up to you," she said. "But you should be aware that this may help us understand what happened to Allistaire Avery," she said. It wasn't exactly the truth, but the possibility of it helping him was there. She caught a surprised look in Draco's eyes and hoped it would solve the problem of his attitude towards the task at hand.

"How?" Snape enunciated.

She regarded Professor Snape carefully. "That map," she said, "was a possession of Rowena Ravenclaw. I believe that if we find these rooms, we may uncover something which not only would explain the dragon, but which would be of considerable importance to the wizarding world."

Snape was inspecting the map. "That sounds very… grandiose, Miss Granger. What is this _thing_ of considerable importance to the wizarding world?"

Hermione regarded him cooly. "I'll tell you. If we find the rooms."

Professor Snape gave her a withering look. "Miss Granger, I don't appreciate being trifled with in this fashion."

"Well, to be frank, Professor, I don't enjoy being trifled with in your usual fashion, so you'll excuse me for placing what guarantees I can on your help." Whether you like it or not, she added mentally.

There was a look of brief anger in his eyes, but the map had piqued his curiosity enough to subdue it after a few moments. He sighed. "It is only these two, then, that remain?"

"Yes. Do you have any idea where they might be?"

Snape was looking at the winged woman. "This is where the Entrance of Passageways is," he said.

"Oh, you mean where all the secret passageways start out from?" said Hermione, referring to Galen's Encyclopedia of Magical Architecture.

Professor Snape eyed her in distaste. "Would you like to pursue the figures on this map by yourself, Miss Granger? Perhaps you would like to deliver your personal dissertation on the Slytherin Dungeons?"

Draco snickered, and Hermione shot him a poisonous look. "Go on," she told Snape. "I'll be quiet."

A bright quartet of chubby fairies appeared near Hermione's shoulders, singing "Hallelujah!" three times before disappearing. Hermione glared at Draco, who didn't even bother to hide the direction his wand was pointed in. 

Professor Snape made a brief, amused sound. "Yes, the woman with the winged head is the Entrance of Passageways. As for this—I've no idea what this thing is. Some ancient, primitive monster. I've no idea what room it represents or where it could be."

This was followed by a silence as Hermione considered this information. She began to wonder how she might be able to do a top-to-bottom search of the Slytherin Dungeons. It would have to wait for the holidays, though. Draco interrupted the silence.

"The Head Boy's room," he said.

Both Professor Snape and Hermione turned to him and stared.

Draco shrugged. "I've heard rumors there was something in the Head Boy's room."

"Which one, though?" asked Hermione. "I know the room is different depending on what house it's located in."

"Well, all the rumors I've heard are from Slytherin," said Draco. "So that one's the only sure bet. The head boy this year's Slytherin, isn't he? Daphne's little brother?"

Professor Snape replied in the affirmative. 

Hermione looked at the map again. "I bet this animal appears in the other houses when the head boy's room is there." 

"Unfortunately, you'll have to test that out some other year," Professor Snape pointed out, and not without pleasure.

Hermione pointed to the beast. "I think we should go here first."

"You want to break into one of my student's dormitories?"

"It's more that I need to get through your student's dormitory in order to get somewhere else."

Snape expelled a breath through his nose, as if to calm himself. He tapped his fingers on his desk, his head tilted at a considering angle. "You'll need to tell me more," he said. 

"If I tell you more, will you let me go?"

"Of course."

"I have reason to believe it contains a relic of one of the founders," Hermione said politically.

"Oh, cut the pretense, Granger," said Draco. "It's obviously something that belongs to Salazar Slytherin. Really, it's _here_, in the dungeons he built. Do you take us for idiots?"

"Depends on the day," Hermione replied sweetly.

There was a violent expulsion of breath from Professor Snape. "If you want help, you will behave as though you've capable of interacting with civilized people."

"Yeah, but you get to insult me," she muttered, but Professor Snape wasn't listening.

A quarter of an hour later they were inside Dexter Greengrass's chambers. Professor Snape had cast a revealing charm about the room, but no secret passages immediately revealed themselves. Draco sat on Dexter's bed, utterly useless, looking through a Quidditch magazine, and Professor Snape and Hermione scoured the room's every possibility.

"Why don't you try the closet?" called Draco lazily from the Greengrass boy's four-poster bed.

"Because it's the one place there's been no magical activity, outside of a few botched Transfiguration attempts—" began Hermione, before Draco interrupted her.

"Granger, Granger, Granger, will you never develop a sense of naturally magical objects? Mirrors, closets—you cannot leave those stones unturned."

Hermione tutted under her breath and threw open the closet doors. "See, Malfoy?"

Malfoy sat up quickly. "Yes, I do, Granger! I was right! I was right!"

Hermione looked. He was right. There was a tiny door outlined at the back of the closet, easy to miss with a casual glance. Draco was still crowing about being right, and Hermione looked nervously around lest the the space-time continuum had been punctured.

Draco was already crawling into the closet, eager to find the room and Salazar Slytherin's artifact with it. Hermione hadn't considered there might be a struggle over it—perhaps she could live with it. She knew perfectly well what it was, and she had no wish for it, and probably The Grail would be safest in the Ministry. Although Harry's disgust of the Ministry was well-founded—The Department of Mysteries, then. 

She followed Draco through the door into a dark, narrow passageway that smelt of damp earth. She conjured bluebell flames to light their way and heard Professor Snape come into the passageway behind her. Caught between two Slytherins—every Gryffindor girl's dream come true, Hermione thought wryly.

The passageway split into various directions, but Hermione insisted on taking the basic path—it would be best to know that one before branching into the others. A few meters down, Draco cried out again. "This is it! The thing on the map!"

Hermione pushed him aside and he reciprocated in aggravation, but he was right. It was the strange beast that was on her map. The three of them stood, as well as they could, since the low ceiling forced Draco and Professor Snape to stoop, and regarded the golden seal on the doorless wall.

Professor Snape addressed the wall with his wand and swiveled it in a complicated figure. He sneered. "It requires blood for entrance."

"Well," said Draco, "he wouldn't want cowards to get it, after all."

Hermione watched as Professor Snape passing his wand through more figures. Although his spells were silent, Hermione could guess what he was doing. He was diagnosing the exact requirements of the entrance.

"It wants a particular kind of blood, doesn't it, Professor?" ventured Hermione.

"Yes," Professor Snape replied, with obvious disgust.

"Well," said Draco, "he wouldn't want mudbloods to get it, after all."

"Actually, Mr. Malfoy, it appears he would only want mudbloods to get it."

Hermione and Draco both stared at Professor Snape in shock. Hermione's expression was quickly replaced by one of triumph.

"Pexus!" whispered Hermione quickly, opening her left hand with her wand hand.

"Miss Granger--" began Professor Snape, but before he could further object, Hermione had placed her bleeding hand on the beast and disappeared. "Gryffindors," he sighed after she was gone.

.((0)).

This wasn't right. Of all the things Hermione had been prepared for, this wasn't one of them. A windowless, doorless room—fine. Anything, really, was acceptable, so long as it contained the Grail.

The Grail, however, was nowhere in sight. All that lay on the floor was a pair of robes containing a skeleton. Hermione grimaced a bit, inspecting the mess. She checked the tie—Ravenclaw. And bones. She sighed. Well, they were in Slytherin's territory. Perhaps she was stupid not to expect bones. As she continued to inspect the robes, she discovered a wand. She picked it up—a heavy wand, indicating a strong user, someone capable of powerful magic. Hermione pocketed the wand and considered the bones.

If the Grail wasn't there—Hermione gasped at her stupidity in even thinking it. Of course the Grail wasn't here. What had Luna said? What had she herself thought? The grail must have been in Lord Voldemort's possession. That must be the explanation for his immortality. She looked at the bones once more. Quite likely, she was looking at the very instrument that had brought it to him. She gathered the bones, the robes, and the wand. As soon as she did, she was back in the narrow dirt passage.

Draco and Professor Snape were there, and were very angry. "What on earth were you thinking, you silly little girl?" whispered Professor Snape. "Do you ever have a thought in your head for others? How on Earth would I explain this to the Headmistress if something were to happen to you?"

Hermione frowned at him. "Nothing happened," she said. She realized he was now staring at the human bones she held.

"You were gone an hour, Granger. You're lucky we waited," said Draco.

"What? I couldn't have been gone more than five minutes," she protested.

Professor Snape indicated the bones. "This is the artifact you were looking for?"

"No, it's gone," said Hermione. "I'm going to bring these to St. Mungo's and have them identifies. That might tell me something."

There was a pause and Hermione realized Professor Snape was glaring at her. "Well?"

"What?"

"You said that if we found the room, you would tell me about this—_thing_ which is so important to the Wizarding World."

Hermione regarded him. "The Holy Grail," she said. "It was the Holy Grail."

"That's a muggle artifact, Miss Granger—"

"It's not, and it's what made Salazar Slytherin immortal until Rowena Ravenclaw killed him. Quite likely it's what made Lord Voldemort immortal, which would be why it isn't here."

Hermione took advantage of the ensuing shocked silence and turned around, back to Dexter Greengrass's quarters.

"Granger," said Draco, hurrying after her. "What does this have to do with Allistaire?"

"Long story," said Hermione, determined to turn in the bones for testing as soon as possible.

.((0)).

No sooner had Hermione arrived back at her flat from St. Mungo's, determined to pack for her trip to Mabon, than her fireplace flashed with chartreuse light and a familiar head appeared within it. 

"Ginny," said Hermione.

"Oh, thank the Founders you're there," came the reply, and without so much as a how-you-do, Ginny stepped out of the fireplace, brushing ashes from her robes.

"Ginny, what's going on? I'm meant to be packing."

Ginny gave her a fierce look. "Sit down, Hermione."

"Oh my God. Is it Ron?"

"No," said Ginny. "No one's hurt. Nothing like that." The taller girl put her hands on Hermione's shoulders and forced her down on her couch. "It's worse than that, actually." She fished inside her robes and brought out a thin black book with a puncture wound in it.

Hermione looked at the diary incredulously. "Did something happen to it?"

"Hermione, this isn't the one you found. The one you found, and which Harry and Ron killed yesterday, is still at the Ministry, in the Auror offices. _This_," she said, tapping rather violently at the book with her wand, "is the one Aberforth has."

Hermione looked more closely at the book. The puncture wound was in a different place. When Ron had shown her the diary yesterday, the puncture wound was dead center. In this book, it was in the upper-left hand corner of the book. She looked back at Ginny. "Have you brought this to Harry?"

"Harry," said Ginny flippantly, "is not being reasonable—shock of shocks, or hadn't you noticed?"

"I had, unfortunately. Last night—"

"Last night!" cried Ginny. "Oh, last night you would have thought Lord Voldemort had returned and stolen all the chocolate frogs in the world—and who knows, maybe he has returned and Harry just wants to save those poor frail friends of his from the knowledge of it and—" Ginny was overcome for a moment and did nothing more than seethe. "It was bad enough at Hogwarts to watch him running along after Dumbledore and saying absolutely _nothing_ about what was going on but this is irresponsible! This is reckless! This is—this is unfathomable!"

Hermione watched Ginny for a moment. Only Hermione was subject to Ginny's outbursts of temper. Ginny had long since learned to control it, since boys always chalked a girl's temper up to hysteria, and she had after all spent her childhood surrounded by boys. But ever since—and it was after the Diary—ever since Hermione and Ginny had confessed to each other who their mutual crushes were, there had been a tacit agreement between them. Hermione was allowed to cry and Ginny was allowed to yell. 

Ginny was staring at the diary in her lap now in a rage. "What happened, Hermione?"

"Last night? I have no idea, actually."

"No," she said quietly. "When he took you. Tom."

Hermione chanced a look at Ginny's face, which was now chalk white, and angrier than she'd ever seen it. "At first," she said slowly, and then stopped and considered. "I didn't know he had anything to do with it. I was just—I was in the Library. I thought I was dreaming. And then I found myself in a room—" she broke off. "You know, it was really strange, because I know the Library like the back of my hand, and I had never been in this room before." She frowned. "I didn't go back to find it, either."

"If you do," said Ginny, "don't you dare go alone."

Hermione shook her head slowly. "No. I won't." She considered the experience again. "I didn't know who it was at first. He said I should know who he was. But the whole time he was there, I had no idea it was Tom Riddle. It wasn't until he gave me the diary that I knew who it was."

"He gave you the diary?"

"Mmm." Hermione braced herself, and then forced herself to say it. "He kissed me. Not him, I mean, not me—I was looking into his eyes and we were kissing. Did he—was it like that for you?"

But Ginny's face was shocked. "No, not at all. For me, he used Harry more than anything. Of course, now I know it's because he wanted information about him. First he acted just as a diary ought to. He wanted to know more and more about—" she blushed "—about Harry. Merlin, the way I gushed about him is embarrassing to remember. But then—I think this was about when he started to possess me, before I figured out what was happening—he made me doubt love."

Hermione said nothing and looked at Ginny.

"He told me this story—Oh, Hermione, you have no idea how much this story stayed with me. Even now, I can't rid myself of it completely. I remember believing completely in love. I remember thinking—my love for Harry is perfect, of course it will come true some day. I don't feel that way any more. Now I feel—I try not to, but I feel like any love can be broken if given the right circumstances. I just hope—with Harry—that it won't happen."

"What was the story?"

Ginny was thoughtful. "He said he was proud. Too proud. He thought he was better than everyone around him, stronger, more powerful. And then—of course, what else—he met a girl. He didn't love her at first. He only noticed her because she had so many secrets. And, in uncovering them, he uncovered another—there was another person like him. Good. Strong. Powerful. And she knew him better than he knew himself, and showed him what would happen, if he continued to think of the world as he did. She saved him. She loved him. He loved her, and it was the first time he had loved anything. But then—another person, a wizard, made her stop believing in Tom. With nothing more than lies, he stopped her love, and she betrayed him." Ginny looked at her hands. "Love is powerful. Never mistake its power, he said. But it isn't always good." She looked up at Hermione. "Do you think it's true?"

"Of course not, Ginny! How could you think it?"

"Not the story, Hermione. I mean about love. Do you think it's true, that it isn't always good?"

Hermione sighed. "I don't know."

"And before you dismiss the story, Hermione, think about this: Lord Voldemort killed, yes. He manipulated, yes. He's turned people's wills against their nature, tortured, stolen… But as far as I know, Hermione, Lord Voldemort never had any use for lying." 

.((0)).

When she woke up, and she did wake up, because she was tired, she was lying between the thickest, warmest blankets she had ever lain under. They were almost body-heavy, enclosing her like a cocoon. The material she was wearing was smooth and it slipped against the surface of the blankets, and Hermione turned and luxuriated in the feeling. She felt someone sit on the bed, and she opened her eyes, for all the world expecting to see Ron.

It wasn't Ron. It was the tall, slim, young form of the Tom Riddle she had seen in the library. He was sitting on the bed, facing away from her. Hermione had an inclination to hide herself underneath the covers, but Tom chose that moment to turn, and watched her for a moment before the left corner of his lips turned into a smirk. "Good morning."

"What are you doing here?"

Tom watched her again, a meaningful expression on his face. "And where is here?"

That was when she noticed everything was gold. It was so bright it reflected light everywhere. She couldn't make out much past the bed she was in. The heavy blankets that covered her were shining with gold. For a brief moment Hermione saw her eyes in Tom's again, gold again. "I know who you are."

"Do you?"

"I know you're possessing me."

A slight smile. "Am I?"

"Aren't you?"

He leaned toward her. "If I were possessing you, I would be able to use you as my hands, bend your will to mine, control you." He still had a watchful look in his dark eyes, like he was waiting for something. "All you have to do is ask yourself: are you in control of yourself."

A moment hung between them, hovering in the air for an overlong time while Tom's statement settled into the air. Hermione waited. He was testing her and she was waiting for it, but she was surprised when he leaned all the way over to her mouth and kissed her. His mouth opened into hers in a practiced movement, and her lips parted involuntarily for a moment, allowing his tongue to quickly caress hers before she withdrew. He leaned with her, his hand pushing down the slipper strap on her shoulder. "No," she said, her hands flat against his chest, conscious of a clean smell, a smell of well-laundered cloth and fresh paper.

He didn't let go of her, but he didn't kiss her again. His hand remained on her bare shoulder. "You see," he said, his breath warm on her mouth, "you're in control of yourself."

Hermione closed her eyes, unable to bear looking at him so closely. "What are you, then? What are you doing?"

"Think of me as an incubus," he said, and pressed his mouth against her neck. It was unnaturally hot, and a liquid, tickling sensation opened up against her skin as his tongue flickered against it, and his teeth tickled her throat. Her eyes opened and she restrained a breath, and he bit her neck again, drawing his teeth in gentle, unbearable waves on her neck. He pressed his hand against the small of her back, and her breasts pushed against his chest in between her hands, still flat on his chest. Hermione sucked in her breath and bit her lip, and Tom withdrew before she had a chance to push him away again. "You can't remember it, but still you can feel it," he said. Her eyes were trapped in his gaze, her lip still caught between her teeth.

"Remember what?" she asked. She knew it was the question she hadn't dared to ask until now.

Tom cupped his hand around her face and smiled at her. He leaned forwards slowly, and Hermione didn't move back when he kissed her again. It was a chaste kiss, and as he placed it on her lips, he murmured, "What do you think, Mione?"

The name struck something inside of her, broke open some unknown component in her, and Hermione stared at Tom, whose own half-lidded eyes weren't even an inch away from her. She could see her eyes clearly now. She could see them, naked, making love in the Forbidden Forest. She felt a sharp pang, and kissed him back, a torrent of unsuspected feeling finding purchase in the intersection of their lips. Then she shook her head, thinking of Ron. This was a dream, but also something more, and here she wasn't allowed, not if she wanted her life the way it was. And she wanted her life exactly as it was, except for her parents, who would be alive if not for who the boy she was kissing would grow up into? Would? Had.

"Stop it," she said, with real anger. She saw that he was surprised, and wondered at it.

Then she was in her own room and it was dark. She sat up quickly, shock suddenly coursing through her. She was still breathing hard and she felt as though she'd been up for hours. If she closed her eyes she could see him, could see him surrounded by gold. Hermione let out a disbelieving sob and clutched at her hair. She looked down at Ron's sleeping figure and thanked Merlin that he was a sound sleeper. She was being possessed. She was being possessed by a diary that had no right to possess her, and had just kissed a ghost in a dream that was not a dream. The diary was already destroyed. What could she do to stop it?

Hermione dumbly realized that she was still in her room. Its comfort and lived-in feel was distorted in the face of her dream, if that's how it could be termed. Ron rolled over beside her, muttering, "My nee." She had to get out of this room. 

Hermione pulled on a bathrobe and walked out of their room. She unlocked and unwarded the door to their flat and let herself out onto the street. The air was crisp and a bit too cold for just her bathrobe, but it cleared her head, so it was good. Hermione began to walk briskly down the sidewalk. 

It hadn't been like this with Ginny. It perhaps wasn't a possession at all. Then what was it? Hermione forced herself to be calm. The results of the bones would come in tomorrow, and she could go to Ollivander's after that to identify the owner of the wand, and then she could go to Mabon, and then things would start making sense. She told herself this as firmly as she could, but could help remember Tom's words from his first visit: "We've only half-opened it, you know."

She was sure, now, it wasn't the library.


	8. Chapter 8

…

Author's Notes/ Reviewer Replies:

SailorHecate—this is the good part of knowing more than Hermione does. She has no idea what's coming and I hope you'll like her reaction to the news in this chapter.

Blindfaithoperadiva—thanks so much, but it was much harder constructing the last story. I had to think of how to create two Toms and worry about what arithmancy looked like (for those of you who wondered, it's all totally symbolic logic stuff), and work out a plot that would throw Hermione and Tom together enough that they'd actually start to like each other against the odds. Here, I'm just working with the stuff from the last story.

Sad Stephen—here is your squeelicious update cookie.

Smithereens—I hope so too. I am on your boat. There are so many unfinished fanfics that I am desperate to know the end to and never shall, because their authors gave them up—my Cowboy Bebop fics are unfinished, my Orphans of Barbary is unfinished. But this fic is aiding and abetting my procrastination, so odds are in your favor for it getting did. And I do realize that no one knows how this story is going to end, and believe me, it will be FANTASTIC. There might be room for another fic to follow once this ends.

Adriane—did you read the story before? That might help you out with your horrible, no good, very bad temp job. Also, like I said last chapter—Masters of Manipulation is also good for keeping you from dying of boredom.

.((0)).

Harry was angry with Hermione. Usually, he was able to separate his Hermione from the girl who had come to Hogwarts with Tom Riddle and died by Dumbledore's hand. Usually. He could forgive his Hermione for dying on him and leaving him with terrible secrets, with the whole truth of Dumbledore's nature, with her death. He'd had to come to terms with that utterly on his own. His best friend had died, literally, in his arms. The fact that his Hermione hadn't didn't make it any less real. And now—and now! He forced himself to suspend judgement even though he was sure about the veracity of Alicia Silversmith's claims. It was a betrayal, her relationship with Voldemort. And all on account of his fate being based on an accident of his own creation. The barest qualification of innocence. It was unfathomable. The man had killed his parents. He had been saying that to himself for the rest of the evening, had been so taciturn that it prompted Hermione to ask him if he was alright. He killed my _parents_. And Hermione had fallen in love with him? Unbelievable. But even if his Hermione hadn't, it didn't make it less real. And the boundary between his Hermione and the other Hermione wasn't as stable as it had been.

It had taken the utmost of his willpower not to confront Hermione during the Summit, to throw the contents of his conversation with Alicia Silversmith in her face and demand an explanation for behavior she wasn't even aware of. It was her, it wasn't her, in some sense Hermione had betrayed him, hadn't she? Or had she? This meant she was capable of it, didn't it? He'd killed Harry's _parents_, and with his own hand, and whatever fragment of innocence Tom Riddle had, it undid none of his deeds.

This was his frame of mind as he attempted to go through the utterly useless paperwork that had accumulated on his desk at the Auror Offices. As his mood ebbed and flowed his writing grew erratic—now quick in anger, barely legible, now with such pressure as to tear through the parchment. There was the distant flame of someone flooing into the office and he paid it no mind until Ginny stood behind him, watching him with some amusement. Harry looked up.

"Ginny, what are you doing here?"

She gave him a considering glance, promptly sat on his lap, and kissed him.

"Ginny, we're at the office—"

"Shut up and close your eyes," she said, hurriedly conjuring a temporary wall to shield them from sight. She placed her arms around his neck. "Your eyes aren't closed."

"Ginny-"

"Close them," she said, in her most Mollyish tone.

Harry obeyed.

"Now let's pretend, Harry, shall we? Let's pretend that you have no reasons whatsoever not to tell your friends all about what happened the night Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort died—"

"Ginny—"

"Listen—and close your eyes." She inspected him. "Good. Now let's pretend that you've long since told me what happened, and you've discussed your little heart out about it, as much as you need to, as if you were a healthy sort of person. Perhaps even go through all the conversations you've had in your head and pretend you're having them with me." Ginny waited.

"You really want me to—"

"Just take a few minutes to say everything you can't tell me but want to tell me. In your head. And pretend you're telling me."

Harry looked at her and sighed. All right, Ginny, he thought. My best friend went back in time and shagged the man who killed my parents. My mentor and hero turned out to be evil and killed her. I feel very upset about all this and I would like to strangle someone. "O.K." he said. "I'm finished."

"Good. Now I want you to listen very carefully." She watched him. "I know it has something to do with Hermione—don't you dare look shocked, Harry Potter, you ought to know me by now. Listen to me. Aberforth still has his diary. And you have another. And Hermione is not being possessed. Something else is happening to her, and Tom Riddle is behind it. I don't care what happened or why you won't say anything about it, but you need to tell Hermione what happened that night or I will never have sex with you again."

Harry looked at Ginny sadly, his mind half-occupied with the news of a second diary. "Ginny, I made a promise."

"Well, the time has come to break it, Harry. We're all Gryffindors here, let's not pretend to have any respect for rules and regulations."

.((0)).

Hermione went to St. Mungo's first thing in the morning in order to get the results of the identification tests she'd sent the bones in for. She was tempted to go to Ollivander's, but it was very likely that he would tell her the same thing: the owner of the bones was most likely the same person as the owner of the wand.

She turned down the corridor, and like a bad dream, there was Draco Malfoy coming down the end of it. He put even more speed and purpose into his stride when he saw her. Hermione stopped, prepared to meet the inevitable.

"Granger, what is this I hear about you mutilating my friend's hindquarters? Are you trying to give his grandmother her death? Honestly, this is going too far, you muggles are positively barbarous."

"Malfoy, skin grafts are commonly used to treat burn victims, and as magical treatment is known to be ineffective, the probable outcome of a muggle treatment is substantially better. Not only that, but it works particularly well when supplemented by mediwizardry. The skin samples that are taken from, yes, the buttocks, are easily healed by magic, creating an endless supply of skin. And furthermore, there is the chance that if we endeavor to replace all the polluted material possible, we may be able to render a magical change that was impossible before."

Draco followed her throughout her speech down the corridors towards the internal specialist's wing, the Intrawing. "I don't trust that he can look much better with pieces of his bum assembled piecemeal on his face—where are you going?"

She gave him an impatient look. "To see about the bones. Listen, You clearly know nothing about the surgery. You don't ever bother to learn anything about what you're prejudiced against, do you?"

"Of course I don't. What definition of prejudiced are you working on, the one that means things that I like to learn about? No, I don't want to learn a thing about the things I'm prejudiced against, I would prefer them to be altogether out of existence, actually."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well, your opinions remain insupportable."

"I support my opinions on their own merits, not based on the flaws of other opinions."

They walked in silence for a moment. "That's actually a decent argument."

Draco raised his eyebrows at her. "You're always accusing me of snobbery—and I am a snob, if a snob is someone with class who eschews those who have none. But you—you, Granger, look down your nose at people more than anyone I've ever known. I can't understand for the life of me how you can stomach Weasely. Protest if you want, but I know you have a worse opinion of his intelligence than I do."

"He's the wizard chess world champion," Hermione seethed, with a killing look out of the corner of her eyes. "Of the _world_," she emphasized.

"Aw, that's what you tell yourself, isn't it? I can imagine you whenever he overstuffs his mouth with food and attempts the most apelike forms of conversation." He rolled his eyes and clasped his hands together. "Champion of the world. Yes, in a game of toys that destroy each other, but of the world. Except for Tokohiro Goto, of course."

"Why does everyone have to mention Tokohiro Goto?"

"Gone, but not forgotten. It's Weaseley is Our King all over again. Honestly, the only thing he's good at being is loud." He gave her a snide look. "Bet he gets performance anxiety in all kinds of situations."

Hermione simply smiled. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"What? In English? Are you implying something? Are you quoting some cave muggle?"

"I'm saying you want my boyfriend's body, twatface. Do you always speculate about your enemies' sexual habits?"

Draco regarded her with narrowed eyes and a sneer. "You have a dirty mind, Granger. And a very, very, dirty mouth. What was that I was saying about class?"

"Oh, why are you still _here_?" cried Hermione. "Little Lord Fauntelroy is back there, getting his arse applied to his face, as we have established. Don't you want to, I don't know, go back and throw an hysteric fit or something?"

Draco was still walking with her. She shook her head in frustration. The door to the Logress Room was within a few paces reach. He waited until they stopped at the door. "You owe me an explanation."

"What?" Hermione turned around from the door.

"You said that whatever you expected to find would help Allistaire, but I don't see how the Holy Grail could be of any service."

Hermione looked at him, annoyed for a moment as she thought it over. A solution presented itself easily enough. "I didn't tell you I'd say anything. Only Snape."

Draco stared at her in disbelief. "No way, I refuse to accept that as an answer. After the mirror, Hermione?"

"It's Granger, thank you," said Hermione.

"I'll call you what I please, mudblood," he returned.

Hermione let out a growl of frustration and turned away from him, storming into the lab. "Carter!" she called. The front room presented itself. The secretary was staring at Hermione in alarm. Hermione noticed and apologized to her. She gave Draco a weary look as he followed her into the lab.

"I will wait for my answer, thanks" said Draco.

"Can you wait in the waiting room, then?" asked Hermione.

"No."

"Insufferable—"

The door opened then, and a middle-aged mediwizard opened it. He looked as if he had been expecting Hermione, or rather, had been dreading expecting her. He had a parchment ready in his hand and it shook. Hermione barely noticed the wizard, and held out her hand for the paper.

"Carter, don't say anything, I don't want this complete git behind me to know anything he doesn't need to—"

"That's completely unfair! I have a right to know!"

"Miss Granger," put in the mediwizard tentatively.

Hermione gave him an impatient glance and snatched the paper out of his hand. "That's all right, I'll read it," and she ignored his protests and batted away his hand. Protocols, really.

The paper with the results was wizard-simple, very different from all the terms and measurements of muggle data. It just read: THESE BONES BELONG TO, and underneath it, in a cursive scroll, as though a person had written it, although she knew that it was a spelled quill that wrote it, was: Hermione Jean Granger. She read the results again, and then she looked up at Mediwizard Carter. His face confirmed the results.

"What?" she managed—very barely managed.

"I'm sure there's an explanation," he said nervously.

Draco moved forward, and that was when Hermione looked briefly upwards and fainted dead away, and more or less into his arms. "What the—" started Draco, moving to support her on instinct. He caught sight of a couch against the wall. The secretary started up, hesitating between the potions cabinet and the unconscious girl. Draco carried her to the couch, grudgingly, once he thought about what he was doing. She was light. Easy to carry. Her head lolled obligingly against his arm, and she fell undemandingly onto the couch. Draco looked at her appraisingly.

"I've got salts!" said the secretary.

"No, don't. Let her rest," said the mediwizard.

"Why'd she faint?" asked Draco. He quickly realized that if the mediwizard took what Hermione had said about the results seriously, he might try to keep Draco from seeing them. So Draco quickly located the card. He picked it up, and stared at it for not a little while before understanding and accepting its contents. He looked over at Hermione, on her side on the couch so her curls spilled onto her face and over her neck, and shook his head. "That's got to be one heck of an explanation," he said quietly to the room. He surveyed the mediwizard, Carter, and his secretary. There was, Draco realized, an advantage to be had here. He asked Carter where his fireplace was.

.((0)).

She knew where she was before she opened her eyes this time. But then, the gold seeped in even through the thin line between her closed eyelids. She opened them.

"Hello, Tom," she said.

"Hello, Mione," he said.

"Mione Potter?" she asked.

He leaned forward, but she pressed her hand against his chest forcibly, and gave him a steady look. It was the first time she had looked into his eyes for any length of time. They were fascinating eyes, the kind of eyes carved into marble in statues. Irresistible eyes, the darkest color possible, an impenetrable expression, the line of nose and mouth on the verge of something.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"I want you to remember."

"Oh, I'll remember in my own good time, whatever it is, _Tom_. I have no need for you to enlighten me on the subject."

"You wanted to know last night."

"I've changed my mind."

"No one else can tell you."

"Harry can tell me."

He laughed at this. "What Harry can tell is only the last seconds of it all."

"I don't care."

"I can tell you everything, Hermione. More than Alicia, more than Harry, more even than Dumbledore if he was alive."

She hit his chest with her fist as hard as she could. "That's exactly why I don't want to hear anything from you! All the people you've killed, the destruction you've caused, and you expect me to trust your word? You'll pollute every word of it!"

"Will I?"

"Yes!"

"What was it your little friend said? Lord Voldemort never had any use for lying, was it?"

"I still don't care! Let go of me!" But he did not, merely watched her as she struggled in his suddenly iron grip. Hermione looked at him, breathing deliberately and slowly in order to calm herself down. "What is this? A dream? Reality? What are you? You can't be the avatar in the diary. You must be something else. Some other remnant of Tom Riddle, after his immortality was finally done away with." Her eyes were making rapid calculations, and she looked at him in disbelieving triumph. "You told me the _truth_," she said. "You _are_ an incubus. You're a sodding _ghost_."

"Clever, Mione, as always."

"A ghost," she said again, disbelievingly. "You look so real."

"Cold, yes, but real—to you."

"Why me? No, never mind, I'll find out on my own." Hermione was glad to find that, even in this incubus's dream—which it may not quite be-- she had a wand. It was, she noticed, the yew wand she'd found in Grail's supposed hiding place. She pointed it at herself, and before Tom could do anything, pointed it at herself and said: "Ennervate!"

.((0)).

Hermione woke up smiling in relief at her success. The dream was so undreamlike—it was an incubus's dream after all, but she finally felt well rested. He hadn't stolen her sleep tonight, she had escaped before he did that. Hermione regarded the ceiling in a satisfied sort of way. Then she wondered where she was. There were two people sitting in chairs by her—bed, not couch, she checked. She blinked at them.

"Pro—Pro—Professor," she said, and looked at Draco. "You."

Draco gave her a satisfied smile, and she remembered everything that passed before she lost consciousness. She realized that he almost definitely found a way to get that information from that card. He knew the bones were hers. She stared at Professor Snape in horror. And now _he_ knew.

"I believe, Miss Granger, that you owe me an explanation," said Professor Snape mildly.

"What?"

"An explanation, Miss Granger, an account of the events which led you to my office in pursuit of this object which you did not find. That is what you promised me if I guided you to the room, and that is what I would like now."

She stared, alternately, at Draco and Snape. It just wasn't fair. She had escaped Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort in the form of an incubus, only to be cornered upon waking by these two. And they actually had her—there was no good excuse she could give, and she couldn't escape from the bed.

Hermione groaned and clutched at her hair. "Is my bag nearby?" she asked.

Draco had it ready. By the look on his face he'd already tried to go through it, so it was a good thing she'd warded it shut. She hurriedly took out Rowena Ravenclaw's book out of it and tossed it towards Snape, who caught it easily. "What is this?" he asked.

"An account of Rowena Ravenclaw's life, by her own hand," said Hermione.

Professor Snape regarded the volume. "Where on earth did you get this?"

"The Library."

"The Hogwarts Library?"

"Which other library?" said Hermione.

"Where, precisely?" Professor Snape demanded.

"I'm not sure. It was a room I hadn't been in before, but it seemed to be connected with the founders—there were four bookshelves, and—"

"Impossible," said Professor Snape.

Hermione looked at him. "What's impossible?"

"The Founder's Section."

"That's what it's called?"

"Yes. Very, very few know of it. I myself have never been."

"Surely it's not impossible to go," said Hermione reasonably.

"Not impossible to go, no. However, it is impossible to take one of the books unless you are descended from the Founder it belongs to," said Professor Snape.

Hermione stared at him, and he stared right back at her. They were both as unwilling to believe it as the other. Hermione might have been more willing if she had taken it herself. Tom Riddle had given it to her—in the form of a ghost, but nevertheless… Could he have been related to Rowena Ravenclaw, though? That didn't make sense either.

"I don't know what you two are so gobsmacked about," said Draco. "It's quite possible for a mudblood to be related to a pureblood. After all, you don't think Squibs go around in wizarding society, do you? Much more common for them to settle among the muggles. I remember thinking Potter was Salazar's air in second year—and I wasn't the only one."

"If you go far back enough," said Hermione softly.

Professor Snape was skimming the pages of Rowena Ravenclaw's book.

Draco was looking at her. "What was it the other night, Granger? With the mirror?" After a silence, he continued, "I know you know what it is, and if you're going to tell Professor Snape you might as well tell me, because I'll make certain to find out from him later."

Hermione shook her head. "The Faer Land," she said.

She didn't expect the look that Draco gave her. It was the same one Professor Snape had on his face now—he, apparently, hadn't made it that far into the story. A haunted look, a look of fear, an expression of horrifying recognition. "You know it?" she asked.

Draco said nothing, and pulled back his sleeve. On his arm was a faint tattoo, faded by the death of its maker. A skull, out of whose mouth protruded a coiling snake. "That's what he had us looking for all those years," he said quietly.


	9. Chapter 9

Microsoft Office 2000

Hey, just to let you guys know, I've decided to let Draco and Hermione's conversations run as long as they run. It may not make for the most properly constructed plot, but I figure you guys are into it. If you don't feel that way, let me know.

Reviewers!: Blindfaithoperadiva—sorry to confuse you so much. What happened is Hermione died in the last chapter of EtScBM, and asked Harry to take her to the room, which he knew about since he was imprisoned in it—that's referenced a bit here. Time travel gets so complicated.

Punkdpanda56- a little drama, not too much. You'll see here. Although Draco had some even bigger news than in the last chapter.

Sad Stephen—did I seriously do that? You know what I find amazing? I'm always making ludicrous mistakes on a keyboard that I would never make while writing longhand. But that's bad, I can't believe I wrote air.

SailorHecate—yeah, Draco is earning his Slytherin points. It's pretty fun to write him, actually, because he can say all sorts of funny things that Lord Voldemort never could. And even in the books he always seemed pretty clever, so he can pretty much operate on Hermione's level.

Crescentmoonwriter—let me guess, you dug the chapter because of Draco, hmmm? Well, lots more to follow in this chapter. No Tom, sadly, but I'm pretty sure he'll be in the next chapter, and it will be pretty good.

.((0)).

Draco stayed after Professor Snape left. While Snape was there, he hadn't said anything more about his and Hermione's experience in the world behind the mirror. He had, in fact, managed to misdirect the conversation from it. Hermione noticed it, and since she had no desire for Professor Snape to know about their experience in the mirror world either, she let him do it. And since the mirror at the Netherfield Manse had its well-known propensity, Professor Snape just chalked Draco's enquiry up to that, and chastised him for not knowing about the Prow Mirror. He and Hermione exchanged glances. She wondered at his behavior, but continued to allow it until Snape's departure.

Draco sat silently in his chair for a while afterwards, and Hermione waited patiently for him to say something.

"Do you think it was?" he asked. "The Faer Land?"

"Yes."

"You're very sure."

"I am." The regarded each other for a few moments. "Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did you do that? Keep what happened a secret from Snape?"

"I just don't trust him."

"Why not?"

"He was a double agent. He's always favored me, so I act to keep it, but I'd rather not let him know anything if it isn't useful."

Hermione took a sip of the glass of water on her bed. "Hmm."

Draco looked at her, waiting for her to say something, but she didn't. He stifled a sigh and sat again quietly, indecisive.

The silence stretched out.

"Why are you still here, Malfoy?" Hermione finally asked.

"Funny you should ask," he muttered. He stood up and sat back down again. "I need your help, Granger."

Hermione regarded him doubtfully. This was rich. "Excuse me?"

"You see, unfortunately, despite the fact that you're a mudblood and I don't like you, you're honorable and—" he had to force himself to say it—"smart. I can trust you. Actually, I can trust you more than I can trust my friends—it's really damnable for you to have so many useful qualities. And you might be the only person who can explain—this thing, the thing I need help with." He expelled a frustrated breath. "And so, against my will, I have to ask you this thing. Tell you this, more like."

Hermione "This is how you ask for me help?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"You called me a mudblood."

"Well, you are one. I also said you were honorable and smart." He seemed pained to have to point it out to her again.

She looked at him in irritated disbelief, but was too interested in what he had to tell her to replace it with an argument. "All right, Malfoy. Out with it."

"Did you notice the other thing I didn't talk to Professor Snape about?"

So he knew. She had hoped that he didn't, she'd hoped that was why he didn't talk about the identity of the bones, that he'd managed not to find out. She said nothing.

"Do you have any idea how it came to pass that the bones you found yesterday were your own?"

Hermione lay down again, weakened at the very thought of it. Because she did know, she knew exactly what it meant when someone found their own corpse. It meant they had traveled through time, and died. She'd managed not to think of it before now, but the vague imprint of the idea has been forming in her mind as she talked. _Grave consequences come to those wizards who meddle with time_, she remembered Professor McGonnagal warning her. "I have no idea," she breathed, and put it out of her mind.

Draco glared at her. "I've half a mind to Legilimens you."

"I've half a mind to occlude you," retorted Hermione. "Anyway, what can you possibly expect me to say? I didn't anticipate—I just thought it would be some lackey of Voldemort's who was sent to retrieve the Grail."

Draco looked at her disdainfully. "I don't believe you."

"Believe what you will."

"Believe what you will, Granger. What would you say if I knew about another instance where there were two skeletons of one person?"

"Actually, Malfoy, I'm perfectly capable of searching for historical examples myself."

"Not this one. I'm talking about Lord Voldemort," said Draco.

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's another body, besides the body they found at Hogwarts. The bones, the other set of bones are…" Draco looked as if he was wrestling with himself for a moment, and he shot her a beseeching look. "I better be able to trust you, Granger, because Lord Voldemort's bones are at Malfoy Manor."

"That's not possible."

"It is. He died in front of my father. Fitting, seeing as he was just about getting ready to kill him. Just like he did my grandfather."

It took a moment to sink in. Both she and Lord Voldemort had two sets of skeleton, although one of hers was currently alive. "Oh—oh." Hermione shook her head. "Oh." She stood up suddenly, too quickly, and the blood rushed from her head and made her weak again.

Draco pushed her back down on the bed. "Get a hold of yourself, Granger. I need to figure this out. If he had two bodies, he might have another. We need to solve this."

"I know," said Hermione, pushing him back. "That's why I need to stand up, so I can go and Legilimens what I need to out of Harry if I have to."

"Harry?"

"Dammit!" Hermione cried, upset with herself for stating her intentions to him. She turned back to him and forced herself to be calm. "Yes—I need to go."

"What about Lord Voldemort's bones?" Hermione looked at Draco for a moment. Not the Dark Lord, but Lord Voldemort. Interesting. And he said he'd been going to kill his father when he died. "I don't want you just coming over when you please," he reasoned.

She shook her head. "I can't even begin to process this right now. I need to go."

"Fine, I'll owl you," said Draco. "See what you can get out of Harry and see if he actually did see Lord Voldemort die."

A _younger_ Lord Voldemort, thought Hermione, and the thought almost made her pass out again on the spot.

"Granger, don't lose it," warned Draco.

"I won't," promised Hermione, taking a moment to gather herself before going to the Floo.

.((0)).

Harry was again muddling through the paperwork on his desk. Ron had been in his father's offices practically all day testing out an artifact that had been confiscated from a dark wizard. Harry's current report was on that Albanian man that wouldn't stop smuggling cursed goblin artifacts into the country. He filled in the blank spaces with his scrawling diagnosis of the situation. He proposed a method to entrap him in an illegality.

He hadn't said anything definite to Ginny, and she had promised him that she wouldn't even speak to him until he had something definite to say. He was hoping that ignoring the question altogether would help his mind magically settle on the right answer. The floo sounded, and for the second time that day it was for him.

Hermione stood by his desk, standing as tall as her height allowed, looking very composed and completely white. "Harry," she said.

He looked up at her and groaned. "Oh, no, please, Hermione," he said.

"I found the room, Harry. Yesterday."

There was a silence. Harry knew that all further protest was useless. He knew what she had found, if she had found the room—and she certainly had; her face attested to it. After all, he had put the body there himself. Harry looked up at her ruefully. He made one last attempt. "You were the one, Hermione. You were the one who asked me not to tell."

It wasn't the thing to say. Briefly, she looked like she was going to cry. Harry knew it was because of the proof in what he'd said. "Then I take it back," she said wearily. "Let's go somewhere else."

Harry had insisted on his own flat since he felt Hermione was less likely to murder him there. He had never seen her this tense. He mucked about in the kitchen, trying to find some clean cups.

"I don't need tea," said Hermione. "I don't need coffee. I need you to tell me what happened."

Harry pulled out one of the wooden kitchen chairs and sat down in it. He gestured towards the other one. He was looking through the door, but Hermione could tell he wasn't seeing anything. "You remember when I disappeared," he started.

"Yes. When Voldemort took you."

Harry shook his head, but said nothing, and there was a strange sort of smile on his face. "I was in a room for six days. I remember because I was awake the whole time. I didn't sleep, I didn't eat, but I didn't need to. I didn't need to do anything. I was comfortable the whole time, even though I was awake, and even though I was sure I was going to see Lord Voldemort. A few times I wondered if I was dead. That room was so strange.

"And then Dumbledore came. I realized when I saw him that he's never saved me, not in the flesh. It made an impression at the time, I almost felt—betrayed. Like now that he'd finally intervened on my behalf I realized that he hadn't all those times before. And then, when we left the room, we were in Hogwarts. I recognized the Slytherin Dungeons immediately. I'd been in Hogwarts the whole time. The whole time. I was sure I was somewhere else, I remember very well feeling shocked that I hadn't been taken, that I'd been hidden underneath everybody.

"Dumbledore told me Hogwarts was evacuated and Voldemort was coming for me. We waited by the entrance. Dumbledore said he would come through the entrance, that it was our only chance, because he'd be expecting I was still in that room. There was the prophecy. I had to do it. And the door opened, and I killed him."

"Voldemort."

"Yes. But… it wasn't Voldemort. It was Tom Riddle. I mean, it couldn't have even been Lord Voldemort in a different form. He had his school robes on. I remember perfectly what he looked like in the diary. I killed him." He looked at her, intensely for a moment. "You were behind him. Hermione, if you had been the first to come in that door, I would have killed you. And you—you looked older. You had obviously somehow come with Tom Riddle—and you looked shocked that he died. You gave Dumbledore this strange look when I hugged you. I didn't realize what it was, I had no idea whatsoever what was going on. Your eyes were yellow. The way they looked, I knew something had gone wrong.

Hermione shook her head. "So—I traveled through time."

"Yes. I think in your—in, I don't know, another time, things hadn't gone well. I got the picture a lot of people had died. And you came back with Tom Riddle."

She looked at him. "How is it possible? If Tom Riddle had gone forward in time he would never have become Lord Voldemort. He wouldn't have been—present in time."

"Look at your bones. You went back in time, and came back before you traveled for the first time. Two Hermiones."

"Two Toms," said Hermione. She clutched at her hair. "My God, Harry, that's how you managed to kill Lord Voldemort in spite of the Grail!"

"The what?"

"The Grail, you know, like the Holy Grail? Salazar Slytherin used it to gain immortality and I believe Lord Voldemort did, too." She ignored Harry's shocked expression. "But obviously if you killed Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort would die—If you did it right, in a peculiar sort of way—which you must have done. Well—at least he is definitely dead, then. It all makes sense. Draco Malfoy has Lord Voldemort's bones at his house."

"He does?"

"Yes. You see how useful it is when you share information, Harry?" She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Wait, Harry. When did Dumbledore die? If you killed Tom Riddle right away?" She thought again. "And… when did I die?"

Harry looked at her for a very, very long time.

"Harry," she said, finally.

"I killed Dumbledore, Hermione."

She actually gasped out loud. It was a moment before she could even look at Harry, and she grabbed his arm for support. "Harry—no!"

He looked her in the eyes, somewhat vengeful in delivering all the secrets she had first asked him to hide and then to uncover, all the secrets he knew she did not want to know. "Dumbledore killed you, Hermione," said Harry evenly. "Dumbledore. And I killed Dumbledore."

"What?" she asked. "What?" She stared at him helplessly. "Dumbledore? Killed me?"

"Dumbledore," Harry confirmed.

"I don't believe it."

"I wish I had that luxury."

"Oh, Harry…." She shook her head, trying to believe it. "I'm sorry."

"_That_, Hermione, is what happens when you share information," he spat.

"I asked you to keep all that a secret?"

Harry said nothing, but Hermione needed no more confirmation.

"Harry, I'm so sorry."

"That's not all," he said tightly, like he was trying to prevent the words from leaving his mouth.

"What?"

"You should talk to Alicia Silversmith," said Harry.

Her eyes widened in honest surprise. "What? Why?"

"You were Mione Potter. The warning she left," and she could see him breathe deliberately, "wasn't just about Voldemort. It wasn't just him, she said." Harry's face was white, livid, his eyes gleaming in restrained anger and impotence. "It was about you, too," he rasped. "You—and—and—Voldemort!"

Comprehension did not dawn for a long moment. It took the stare afterwards, quickly diverted, to make her link what he said to her dreams, and together link them to an obvious conclusion. It was no use denying it, no use chalking it up to a rumor. She, and Voldemort.

For the second time that day, Hermione fainted.

.((0)).

"I'm sorry."

Hermione blinked again. She didn't realize she'd opened her eyes. It was as if she was emerging from a deep sleep. She regarded Harry for a long moment.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione, I'm sorry, I should never have told you."

Hermione shook her head and closed her eyes again. That golden bed, the kisses, remembered and newly made. She, and Voldemort. It was no trick, no incubus's game. It was real. He wasn't trying to seduce her, he was trying to make her remember. There was a tapping at the window, which grew louder very insistently and then very quickly.

"Hold on," said Harry. Hermione opened her eyes again. Everything seemed completely unreal. It was like she was swimming underwater. She watched Harry open the window to a blue-black owl, and in one smooth, languid motion, she had leaned out of bed and stood. "Malfoy?" Hermione heard Harry say in surprise.

Hermione extended her wand. She cast a silent accio on the scroll and unraveled it before Harry had a chance to register that she was even out of bed. The note on the scroll was as terse as the last one:

Granger:

9:00, The Leaky Cauldron.

-Malfoy

"What does that git want?" asked Harry. Hermione didn't answer him; he'd realize in a moment why Malfoy was writing, if he wasn't a complete idiot. Hermione walked across the room. "Hermione?" asked Harry, as she walked towards the fireplace. "Hermione, I'm really sorry, just say something."

She looked at him, took a handful of floo powder from the mantle, through it into the fireplace, and said: "The Leaky Cauldron."

She didn't care what time it was. She only wanted to be gone. She wanted to see Lord Voldemort's bones for herself and cement the horrid truths that she had discovered, and if she was going to be surrounded by drunk, noisy people, then it was a welcome distraction. Alcohol, too, would be a welcome distraction, so the first thing she did upon her arrival was order a Firewhisky. She quickly downed the first shot and asked for another. She looked at the clock. It was quarter past eight; she didn't have long to wait. She sipped her next drink carefully, realizing it would be prudent to restrain her desire to kill herself via alcohol poisoning.

She had managed to half convince herself, by her third drink, that it might not be true, that in fact she may not have shagged Lord Voldemort, that it might be some vicious and misguided attempt to attack her by Alicia Silversmith—and after all, hadn't Harry—but here was where hope died. Harry was angrier that she'd ever seen him, and he was angry at _her_. It made her feel as if she herself had done it—but hadn't she, in a sense? And there were the dreams. It might not be true, but in the smallest possible interpretation of "might". She ordered a glass of water, and drained it quickly.

And if it was true, she couldn't take it back. They had been together—and they had come back to her own time. What if they had lived? What could they, what could _she_, have possibly been thinking to do? Hermione didn't want to think of the answer. She'd been sent back and was obviously unequal to him. He'd seduced her _then. _It had gotten her killed, but luckily, he had died too. If he had lived… if there had been two Lord Voldemorts.

Draco was right. There may well be more. There were at least two, which meant that there was another Voldemort in this era, and that there had managed to be at least one Voldemort who remained in the past, who was not removed by time travel. Somewhere along the way to the future, someone, and maybe Tom Riddle himself, had made a double of himself. Two Toms. It was almost as good as immortality. If he knew it, if any incarnation of him knew of it, of course he would want a triple, and more. Each self was an assurance against death.

But no—both Voldemorts died when Harry killed them. That would imply that when one self died, all died. But then, why hadn't both Hermiones died? Hermione grew quickly lost in speculation on this front, but it was impossible to come to any more conclusions or even think in a clear-headed manner any more. She gulped the rest of the Firewhisky—her fifth.

"Granger, you lush."

Hermione turned very deliberately around and gazed solemnly at Draco. "I am not drunk."

"You stink of Firewhisky."

"I have a surprisingly high tolerance for alcohol," she said loftily.

Draco smirked at this. "You're asking for it."

"What do you mean?"

"When drunk people boast about how sober they are, they're bound to do something embarrassing, like trip or vomit or spill something."

"Laughing at the floor."

"What?"

"That's what Ron calls vomiting. Laughing at the floor."

Draco considered it. "That's rather good, for a weasel."

"Said the kettle to the pot, ferret."

"You're definitely drunk, Granger."

"I could drink a bottle of this and out-" she looked at the ceiling for clues. "Out-something you. Outdo you at something."

"Well, already I'm winning the contest of basic grammar, Granger, so it's 1-0."

"Well, no, that's not fair. You have to be drunk, too." She did not, impaired judgment or not, think he would take her up on the offer.

Draco surprised her when he considered this. "All right. I could use a blackout." And he sat down beside her and snapped his fingers for a waiter. Hermione scowled at the snapping, in a rather obvious way, but Draco merely smiled at her and asked how many shots of Firewhisky she'd had.

"Five," she answered him. "And then what shall we do?"

"What do you mean?"

"To prove my superiority."

"Oh, your superiority? Let's arm-wrestle, in the great tradition of your ancestors."

Hermione scowled again; Draco smiled again. "Git," she offered, and ordered another water, which Draco eyed suspiciously. His shots arrived, and he regarded them in a very satisfied way before arranging them into a neat row of five. Then he drank each of them, one after another, simply dropping the contents entire into his mouth and picking up the next glass. It was over in half a minute. Hermione stared at him. "That was disgusting."

"That was amazing. Admit it."

"I will do no such thing."

"Garcon! Another!"

"Ugh, manners!"

"Speak for yourself—"

"—mudblood," Hermione finished before he did. "You are so tedious." Another shot arrived for the both of them.

Draco raised his eyebrow. "See who can drain it the fastest?"

"That's stupid. It's a shot. A beer is what you use in a fastest-drinking contest. A bottle of something."

"Gillyweed?"

Hermione considered this. It was a bit more hallucinogenic than she wanted, but any departure from reality was welcome at this point. "All right."

"Gar—" Hermione clapped a hand over his mouth and restrained his hand.

"Pardon," she called politely to the bartender, who was smiling in amusement at her actions. Two bottles of Gillyweed arrived promptly.

"That was unnecessary," said Draco, taking the bottle in front of him. Hermione took hers. "Are you ready?"

"Set, go," said Hermione, and began to drink. Draco hastily took his own bottle. He developed a look of such furrowed concentration on his face that Hermione almost laughed out loud at him. But she managed to finish her bottle faster; she was more used to drinking beer.

"That wasn't a fair start!" spluttered Draco.

"I win," said Hermione, satisfied.

"Aren't we supposed to do some kind of other competition?"

"Yes. It should be magic. To prove that a mudblood is better than you at magic."

"While drunk," added Draco helpfully.

"Yes. While drunk."

"I know," said Draco, his voice steady and sober sounding. The alcohol hadn't hit him yet, but Hermione expected it to hit him like a hammer. "Let's do alphabet transfiguration."

"All right. Who starts?"

"I will." Draco took a matchbox out of his pocket and placed it on the table. He aimed his wand at it and turned it into an armadillo. Hermione was ready and turned it into a butterfly; Draco a cup, Hermione a doily, Draco an envelope, Hermione a feather, Draco a bunch of grapes, and so on until Draco got stuck on w for Merlin knows what reason—perhaps the combined effects of Firewhisky and Gillyweed finally had an effect. He froze just long enough to be eliminated from the game.

"I win again," said Hermione, beaming.

"You win all the time. It's not fair. Literally. You have to answer every question and get the best grade and outdo every student, and you do, you always do, it's completely unacceptable behavior."

"What, for a mudblood?"

"No, for a Gryffindor. For you. You are very annoying when you win things."

"Well, that's the fun of winning," said Hermione philosophically. "Annoying people afterwards."

"Well, we do agree on that," admitted Draco.

"Yeah, speaks he of Weasely is our King infamy."

Draco chuckled. "My greatest endeavor."

"I would have thought that was your initiation into the Death Eaters."

"Watch it, Granger."

"It's true, isn't it?"

"You don't know anything about it.

"What don't I know? You accepted that mark. I know you can't be branded against your will."

"Your will can be manipulated," said Draco.

"I'm completely unsurprised that you refuse to accept responsibility for your actions."

"How did we wander into this conversation?"

"Anyways, all that stuff you say about mudblood this and muggle that is the same thing Death Eaters were saying, so I guess I'm surprised that you wouldn't outright brag about being a Death Eater."

"It's not very politically correct right now," said Draco.

"Yes, well, now I understand everything."

"Granger, he said he'd kill my parents. He held that over my head the whole time, and then when Potter disappeared and I couldn't find him at Hogwarts, he was about to kill my father. That's when he died. Ever since my grandfather, my family has been his. A few of us have been. And none of us have grandparents anymore. And there's dead mothers and fathers and he was starting to kill us, too. Yeah, we were all Death Eaters. Except for the Avery twins, and Zabini. But Zaibini's mother protected him, and everyone knows what he did to the Averies, and only the twins and Mrs. Silversmith left now, and all the Silversmiths gone. You'd have done the same damn thing, Granger. You should know. You killed my auntie, and that didn't even save your parents."

Hermione regarded him in an overly composed way. "I can't say I'm sorry I did it."

Draco looked right back at her. "See? We understand each other." He snapped his fingers before Hermione could do anything about it and their two glasses refilled. He held up his glass. "Cheers."

"Right," she said, clinking her glass against his and draining the shot, forgetting her resolution about sipping carefully. She was trying to decide whether or not to hex him for talking about her parents. She wasn't quite sure if he'd been insulting or not—and she was more disturbed to hear that Draco had been an unwilling Death Eater than that he had been a willing one.

"So," said Draco. "What did you get out of Potter?"

"None of your business."

"I know you went back in time."

"What? How?"

"Mirrors, closets, and skeletons. Inherently magical objects. Skeletons are always cursed or transfigured out of something or into something, and if there's two sets of them there's sure to have been time travel. 'A body twice is a roll of time's dice'," he quoted. "Wizarding proverb. The kind of thing that isn't in a book."

"Maybe I will hex you," said Hermione.

Draco raised a finger. "Oh, no, I have you now, Granger. There's all sorts of things you don't want people to know, and _I know them_. It wouldn't be too smart to hex me."

"Um, we're wizards, Draco, and I'm pretty capable of casting a memory charm."

"You shouldn't telegraph your intentions."

"If you were a capable wizard I wouldn't. Since you aren't, there's no harm done."

"Oh yes, you're so capable, playing around with time and getting killed."

Hermione couldn't help but be spurred to brood at this. Dumbledore's name repeated itself in disbelief over and over again in her head.

"So, Granger, how'd you get killed?"

"Dumbledore," she whispered. She was definitely drunk.

Luckily, Draco laughed. "Right, so Potter doesn't have a clue. Does he know why you went back in time at all?"

Hermione looked at him for a long moment and then, to her utter and eternal embarrassment, burst into tears.

"Granger! Granger!" squawked Draco in a panic. "Stop, honestly. I'll—I'll—you can have Voldemort's bones, alright?" He said it in the tone of a parent promising a treat to a bad-tempered child. "I mean, it's not like I've much use for them, I only kept them because of Mrs. Silversmith…"

"That evil old gossip!" cried Hermione.

"What?"

"With her notes left in books and—and—_presumptions_ about certain people and _theories_ about things that I haven't even done." She sniffled a little bit.

Draco was staring at her. "You knew her, didn't you?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to stare. "How on earth did you get so insightful?"

"Ha! I'm right," he said. "And you're not crying," he added under his breath.

"She knew me, I guess," said Hermione. She shook her head. "Maybe better than I know myself."

"So you do know what happened?"

Hermione regarded him soberly now, her crying jag completely forgotten. "I don't know nearly enough," she said.

"Good, you're in the same boat as me." He stood. "And we've got nothing more to do than figure it out."

"We?"

"I know you prefer darling Potter—"

"Actually, you might just be the best person for the job," said Hermione. She had only just considered what Ron might do if he knew what Harry did, what she now knew. No wonder she'd told Harry not to tell. Before they left, Hermione had a moment to wonder if she would have been better off letting Harry follow her original advice.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Notes—reviewers.

SailorHecate—thanks, Harry is so weirdly tough to write. He's such an in-betweeny guy, honestly humble but also capable of making it all about himself. But then when I was writing him I realized that he's a bit terse and socially ineptish. Not a talker.

Punkdpanda56—it is good to write a story in which humor is possible. Enjoy.

TheCrescentMoonWriter—you're right, there is still some stuff you guys don't know. You'll find out something pretty important that you don't know in this chapter.

Sad Stephen—I feel like Hermione would never get drunk, but I've gotten her drunk twice in this series. It's her way of dealing with stress. My way, too, but…

Rosiline—thank you, and continue to enjoy.

Blindfaithoperadiva—they have to work together on this, their mutual enmity is too much at this point, and the circumstances need to force them to get to know each other a bit more. Although as I go they aren't learning much, just irritating each other.

Jeanne (who reviewed EtScBM and is probably caught up to the sequel by now)—that was one of the best reviews I've ever had. Seriously, thank you. It got me back to me laptop to pound out a few more pages, so again, seriously, thanks.

I would like to dedicate this chapter to Wikipedia. You'll see why.

.((0)).

They portkeyed over to the point nearest Malfoy Manor and Hermione followed Draco as they walked towards the house, which wasn't currently in sight. "Malfoy, where is your house?"

"I don't have a house," said Draco. "I live at Malfoy Manor." His voice was still very steady and Hermione had to admit that perhaps he carried alcohol off a bit better than she did. Currently she was vacillating between pink elephants and little gnomes that peeked out of bushes—those turned out to be real, though.

"Are your parents there?" she asked in sudden apprehension.

Draco snorted. "No, luckily, they're summering with friends in Dorset."

"You just used a season as a verb."

"Yes, me and my funny wizarding ways."

"Actually, rich muggles talk like you do. Merlin knows I met enough of them at Oxford. Tracy Natt was an even bigger arse than you. Only, he went wintering in the Alps."

"May he meet the nearest Giant."

"Indeed," said Hermione.

"What?"

"I did just say he was an arse."

"Oh. I guess I'm just not used to agreeing with you."

"I still don't see your house."

"I don't have a house," Draco began to seethe, until he was cut short by Hermione's sweet smile. "Wow, Granger," he said. "The muggles have worked wonders on those rodent teeth of yours."

"Actually, it's thanks to you they were fixed."

"Oh?" said Draco.

"Yes, after you cast that spell at Harry that hit me instead and Professor Snape said the meanest thing anyone ever said to me in my life? Yeah, thanks for that, Draco, because Madame Pomfrey let me shrink them down to a better size. And other than the front ones, they were perfect." She smiled again. "Wish I could say the same for your chin."

"What's wrong with my chin?"

"Oh, there's your house."

"Mudblood—"

"Ah!" said Hermione. "Your pet name for me, and in public! Draco, don't conceal your affection any longer."

"Shut up, Granger."

"Not on your life, Malfoy."

Draco glared at her for a moment and made a sudden attempt to pinch her.

"Ow, Draco! What are you, a muggle?"

"Shut up, Granger—ow! Barbarian!" Draco felt the shin she'd kicked. "That was much harder than I deserved."

"Then maybe you'll learn."

"Shut—"

"You shut up!" Hermione interrupted him. She folded her arms and glared at him. They'd stopped walking and were making valiant attempts to communicate their hatred with their eyes.

"You're being childish," Draco started.

Hermione closed her eyes. "Draco," she said.

"That's the second time you've called me Draco, Granger."

"Oh, never mind!" she exclaimed, and stalked away from him, towards the gates. Draco followed her, silently fuming. She turned to him. "Just take me to the bones."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"I'm going to run a test."

"You're going to bring Lord Voldemort's bones to Saint Mungo's?" he asked incredulously.

"No. I have something with me now." She shook a beaded purse, which made the sound of a much larger bag, a virtual cargo hold of useful things.

"And when will you know?"

"Depends on when you show me the bones."

Draco pointed his wand at the gates and muttered an incantation. They immediately opened, a nimbus of blue springing over them and dissolving into the air. Hermione followed Draco up the path towards his house. She had never seen Malfoy Manor and had to admit that it was beautiful—and surprisingly restrained. As she walked through the French Doors and into a living room peopled with Louis XIV furniture, she repressed her desire to point out that the Malfoy family had surrounded themselves with muggle decorations—there was even a Monet above the fireplace.

"Stop gawking, Granger. We've got to go to the Dungeons."

Hermione scowled at him. "There is no possible world in which the sentence 'Hermione Granger followed Draco Malfoy into his dungeons willingly' is true."

"Then-" but before he could even begin to threaten her, Hermione's wand tip was resting lightly against his throat. "OK, OK." He looked at her for a moment. "What do you want me to do, bring them up to you?"

"Yes," said Hermione, as firmly as possible.

Draco sighed and turned away from her. "I hate going to the dungeons by myself," she heard him mutter as he walked away.

After a few minutes to herself, though, Hermione began to regret being left to herself. There was a reason why she had been drinking, and why Draco Malfoy's company had actually been—less than galling. Left to herself, Hermione had two things that were impossible to avoid thinking about: the fact that Albus Dumbledore had killed her, and the fact that she—some form of her-- had been romantically entangled with Lord Voldemort. She didn't know whether or not to be worried that the latter of the two thoughts was the most disturbing.

The Malfoy's receiving room was too big. There were far too many shadows lurking in it, seeming to occasionally resolve themselves into figures and faces. She even thought she saw a tell-tale flash of red in the corner of her vision—but that must be her imagination, because her incubus had never shown the red of his eyes to her.

Her incubus—that was an unavoidable subject for contemplation as well. An incubus was not an intentional ghost—it was the result of a conscious choice between staying in this world or leaving for another. It was born of deep and dark desire. For life, for destruction, for love, for anger, and the utter refusal to die, an incubus was formed.

They only ever intended one thing. To gain life, not by death, but through sex. It made sense that Tom would turn into an incubus, that Tom would become a ghost that could regain its life rather than die—hadn't that been what Lord Voldemort always tried to avoid? What was strange, was that she hadn't seen his ghost until recently, when he had almost certainly existed for at least those years that followed his and Professor Dumbledore's deaths. It was a problem to solve. She was pretty sure he would follow her for the rest of her life unless she put a stop to him.

She sighed and drifted inevitably over to the bookshelves, hoping to find a book to distract her. She pulled out a black and silver-embossed volume that turned out to be LeFroy's Secret Hexes. She flipped through it; she was familiar with the text because so many of the spells had a neuromagicological impact.

Hermione practically jumped out of her skin when Draco re-entered the room. Hermione put a hand over her rapidly jackrabbitting heart.

"Scare easily?" he offered.

Hermione turned to face him, turned to face the bones. They were suspended in the air in front of Draco, floating; he would not touch them, not if he could help it. "Put them down somewhere," Hermione instructed. Draco began to set the bones on a heavy teak coffee table, then quickly changed his mind and transported a dust cover to fit over the table before he laid the bones down. He then eyed them with a fussy distaste, prompting Hermione to hide a smile.

"Accio book!" said Draco, and LeFroy's book went flying from her hands into Draco's. "Interesting selection," said Draco as he eyed the book, and looked up at her. "You read these books, Granger?"

"I _read_, Malfoy. It's a defining characteristic of mine."

"Potty and Weasel know you read things like this?"

Hermione glared at him.

"Oh they _don't_, do they?" he asked. "My, my, Granger, I never knew you for a hypocritical little rule-breaker."

"Shut up," she said softly. "How can you possibly prepare for these things without knowing them? I grew up in a world full of people who wanted to kill me with this kind of magic. It would be stupid not to read it."

"Oh, and those books don't taint the reader?"

Hermione glared at him again. "I know what they do. I do what I can. But I _have_ to _know._"

"You've hit the nail on the head there," said Draco.

"What do you mean?"

"Harry Potter wouldn't be half so annoying without the influence of your bottomless curiosity."

"Harry wouldn't be half so alive without it," Hermione retorted.

Draco gave her a look as if this proved his point exactly, and then he gestured to the bones. "What are you waiting for?"

"Don't start arguments with me, then." Hermione rummaged through her bag, and then brought out the PCR kit that she'd gotten from one of her friends in forensics. A DNA test was just as accurate, if not more, than a wizarding test of magical residue. She ought to have used it on the other set of bones—her own bones, she thought with a shudder—and she wouldn't owe Draco Malfoy anything. But then, she'd never have known about the second set of Lord Voldemort's bones.

"What in the name of thaumaturgy are you doing?"

Hermione squinted at him. "Polymerase chain reaction." She extracted a bit of the bone with her wand and guided it into a tube with the Taq polymerase to replicate the DNA, and then put the tube into the thermal cycler. She spelled the little white machine for a rapid and automatic cycling process.

Arthur Weaseley had, by example, taught her well. Muggle technology and magic could complement each other admirably—it wasn't until she'd half-re-entered the muggle world in her university years that she had realized it. Her Telebrain had started out when she'd managed to immunize her computer against magic and start spelling it to respond to her commands.

It was a little known fact that on the Telebrain was a copy of Lord Voldemort's DNA imprint. It had come from the body found at Hogwarts as well as bits of DNA residue they'd managed to find at various of his residences—it was something she and Harry and Ron had all done together, to put him to rest, to be sure he was dead, that the body was his. She took her portable Telebrain out of her bag, turned it on, and called up the results in a series of keystrokes.

"This looks… overly complicated," said Draco. Hermione took the tube out of the thermal cycler and extracted a bit of the residue from the business end of the tube. She loaded it into the DNA template and followed it with a primer. She injected blue dye in it and waited for the PCR-amplified results to pop up. The color slowly developed in the template. Draco eyed it suspiciously. When the color had completely developed, Hermione flicked between the image on the Telebrain and the image in the template before her. It was quite a while before she was assured they were the same. She checked three critical spans of his DNA strand.

"It's him."

"It's Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes." She placed her hands on her hips and glared at the bones on the table in front of her. _Now which set of bones do you belong to, Tom Riddle?_ she thought.

"This means he traveled back in time too."

"Yes."

"You don't seem very surprised."

"Neither do you."

"Yes, well, why do you think I called you over? Not so I could be sure, but so you'd be convinced."

"Oh."

"Mrs. Silversmith told me what it meant the day she read about it in the Prophet. She said it wasn't Lord Voldemort, but his younger self, Tom Riddle—and we didn't know Lord Voldemort was dead until a week later, when my father managed to bring his body back from Albania. What's interesting is the mystery of your bones."

Hermione looked at him as he folded his arms and looked at her in a satisfied way.

"Don't you think it's strange that both you and Tom Riddle time traveled, and both of your bodies were found at Hogwarts?"

Hermione looked at him suspiciously. "Yes," she ventured.

"You know, I don't think he traveled of his own volition."

"No?"

"No." Draco stepped closer to her. "I think he went with you."

"What?"

"Yes. I think he went to the future with you."

"Oh?" Hermione was starting to feel faint again. How could he know all this?

"Do you know why I think he went to the future with you?" he asked, smirking.

"No, and I'm not sure I want to."

"Oh, I'm sure you don't want to."

"Then don't—" Draco held his hand over her mouth. She was startled, but silenced.

"I think that," he started, speaking in a pedantic, schoolboy tone, "at first, you went back in time to kill Tom Riddle. You see, Lord Voldemort had won. Everyone was dead. Potter was almost dead. But luckily for us, brave little Gryffindor that you are, you went back in time. In—get this: a Time Machine that you had already invented fifty years ago."

"Malfoy, stop—" she started, feeling honestly sick, but Draco moved closer to her, grinning. He knew that he knew more of the story than she did. He'd had a nice, long look into his great-Aunt's Pensieve, especially her memory of interrogating Mione Potter.

"Oh, call me Draco, and I'll call you Mione," he said smoothly, taking her hand. "After all, we're old family friends, no? Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, you went back in time, intending to kill Tom Riddle. But—" and he grasped his heart with Hermione's captive hand—"—you fell in _love_. Ah! So you came up with a plan. You would take Tom Riddle to the future, not to kill him, but to give him a chance to escape. You would find a way to kill Lord Voldemort instead. Which, in the end, is the only thing you managed, since neither of you escaped."

Hermione stared into the silence.

"Is that why Dumbledore killed you?" he whispered into her ear.

Hermione looked at Draco. "What the hell, Malfoy? What—How—"

"Do I need to tell you? I thought you were smart."

"Alicia Silversmith," she said in a detached, wondering tone. "But—but—" she looked at him angrily. "What is the point of this, Malfoy? If you already knew—"

"I didn't know anything, until Mrs. Silvermith saw you the other day and recognized you. And she didn't show me what she had in her Pensieve until I told her about your bones. I've known everything, but only for about a day."

Hermione grabbed Draco's collar by her fist and glared at him. "Malfoy, you _have_ to get me that Penseive, or I'll never forgive you."

Draco took her hand and took it from his shirt. "That's not much of a threat."

"Draco Malfoy—"

"Oh, haven't you figured out that I want to tell you everything? I'm trying to find out how this story ended, if there are any counterparts of Lord Voldemort running around somewhere in time. Of course I'll let you look at the Pensieve."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. He was being unusually cooperative. Something had to be wrong. "Where is it?" she asked.

"In Mabon." Draco eyed her with satisfaction. "You can kill two birds with one stone."

"I can," she said, wondering again. She frowned at Draco. "You're up to something."

"Yes. We Slytherins."

"We've been out of Hogwarts for years."

"You never lose your house."

"I don't live in a house," Hermione said blithely.

"I know. You live in a tiny little flat like a termite lives in wood."

"Well, that's definitely a little hyperbolic."

"Ugh, speak English, Granger."

She ignored him and considered something. "It doesn't explain Lord Voldemort's death. I mean, sure, if you kill a younger self, you kill the older self, but his aging self and his impact should also vanish. That's why no one wants to change time that far back. All their loved ones might not even end up born."

Draco had a thoughtful expression on his face. "No, there's plenty of wizards who've killed their time-travelling counterparts without dying. And Riddle and Voldemort died within each other's timeframe, likely at the same moment…"

Hermione had already had this discussion with herself several times and was surprised to find that Draco knew so much about time travel.

"How old were you?" he asked.

"The same as Tom, I think," she answered.

"Tom, hmmm? You're on a first name basis with Lord Voldemort?"

Again, her expression gave something away to Draco.

"Granger, Granger, you're still hiding something from me, aren't you?"

She regarded him. "Yes, I am, Draco. I am hiding things from you and they will stay hidden until it seems pertinent to reveal or until you learn to be better at Legilimency than I am at Occlumency." She stood, rubbing her forehead in aggravation. "I'm going to go, now."

"Hold it, Granger—"

"I know the way to the portkey," she interrupted him.

"The weekend, Granger! Mabon next weekend," called Draco.

"Fine," she replied, and left before he could chip away any more at any other of the things she wished she didn't know.

.((0)).

"My dad," said Ron upon Hermione's entry to her flat, "is wicked."

The thing about flats and wizardry was, keys were not necessary when you had the floo. So, very often, Hermione found Ron in her apartment, usually when he wanted to eat, since his and Harry's silverware remained in a perpetually unwashed state.

She regarded him for a long moment, gangly and grinning, and barely restrained herself from saying "Thank goodness." Ron was exactly what she needed right now. He was comfortable, he knew the least now of any of the Trio, and he was the only person who had ever been able to distract her from her worries.

"Oh?" said Hermione, trying her best to act normally. She mentally stored the contents of her day in a box marked "later" and focused on the conversation.

"Check this out."

"Ron, what the hell are you—point that thing away from me!"

"Oh, so you know what it is?"

"Guns have been around for _centuries_ Ron! Away, point it away! How can you not know what it does?"

"I do know," said Ron. "It's such a little thing, I was really surprised. We were testing it in Dad's office."

"They are also very sensitive, and your finger is basically on the trigger. You know what a trigger is, right, Ron?"

"Not exactly. I thought this part was just here so you could hold it or loop it to your belt, or—"

"So obviously you weren't the one shooting when you tested it in the office. Put it down now, Ron."

"No, here's the wicked part."

"Down."

"It's perfectly safe, Hermione, it's spelled safe. You have to deactivate it with a spell."

"I still don't want you near it. Honestly, ekeltricity is one thing, but how can you not know about guns?"

Ron finally listened to her and put the gun down on the desk. "_And,_" he continued: "the bullets are spelled to hit the target. So even if you miss, you get the guy."

"Now I'm really glad I made you put it down. Where did you get it?"

"I didn't. Dad got it from a dark wizard."

"Lovely."

"So you don't want it?"

"What?"

Ron smiled at the sudden change in Hermione's expression. He could see her formulating all sorts of tests and experiments to run on the gun. "I thought you might want it, what with all this weirdness lately. And Boot told me old Death Eater McFerrety has been in the Impcap Wing a lot, got the impression you've been avoiding it because of him."

"Um. Yeah." Hermione stared at the gun for a moment. It was a very handy sort of weapon, what with wizards being ignorant of it and it being spelled to hit its target. She looked back up at Ron. "Did you just suggest I shoot Draco Malfoy?"

"You could look at it that way. Actually, I'd prefer it if you did."

"You're sure you witnessed these alleged tests in your father's office? Are you sure you didn't just throw the gun at things?"

"Give us some credit."

"VISA or Mastercard?"

"What?"

"The reason you don't understand that joke is the reason I give you no credit."

"The reason I don't understand that joke is because it's not funny."

"Yes, well." Hermione shrugged and gave Ron a defeated look. "It's very sweet that you got this for me, Ron."

"Finally," he said, and kissed her. He tasted like strawberries. He always tasted sweet. Hermione wrapped her arms gratefully around his shoulders and gave into the kiss. It was a rhythmic, ritual tasting, giving pleasure within the utter center of comfort. This was how she liked them best: with their chests against each other's, hearts beating warm, soft tattoos into each other's flesh, Ron's lips smiling under hers, every once in a while taking a moment just to look at her. His eyes were the perfect shade of blue, exactly in the middle, neither dark nor light, but bright. He had kind eyes. It was the first thing she ever noticed about him, and it was the reason she'd cried so hard in first year when she thought he hated her. His eyes seemed so _nice_, how could he say something so mean? He was blunt, he was brusque, all corners and edges bordering rudeness, but that was just the fault of his honesty. He couldn't hide his emotions. Like when he'd gone after her at the Yule Ball—Hermione had to laugh, remembering the obvious jealousy. Despite her harsh words—which he had after all deserved—she had been delighted. It was the first time she was sure he had feelings for her.

They made love and had dinner afterwards, something Hermione knew Ron considered a perfect evening. They sat in front of the Telebrain watching episodes of _Black Adder_ until Ron fell asleep. As soon as she heard him snoring, the vicious truths of the day came back to snap at her. If only she'd refilled her Valium prescription.

Hermione went to her bed, hoping the seclusion would help her sleep. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, counting her breath in and out. But Voldemort and Dumbledore and Tom and Harry and Draco and the Slytherin Dungeons and the Grail and Mabon and the Faer Land and the boundaries which must be broken and which must be established, right and wrong in their proper places—all of it came to her in the spaces between her breaths.

And then, something seemed off—too warm, to bright. Hermione opened her eyes to gold. Again, they were there, on the golden bed that had been created during their first confrontation, a confrontation this Hermione didn't remember. Tom sat by her, watching.

"Get away from me," she said, but found as she reached for it that she was now without her wand. So Tom learned that much. He brushed a stray curl from her face. "Don't touch me," she said.

"Ah," he replied, a trifle sadly. "So it begins. I suppose you've already begun searching for a means to destroy me?"

"I found your bones. The other set, that is. I'm just trying to figure out which bones you belong to—not that it makes much difference."

He eyed her in some amusement. "So the mystery of your time-traveling other self is of more importance to you than preventing me from doing whatever unspeakable evil I'm surely plotting."

"I know perfectly well what evil you're plotting. Although if you call trying to get into a girl's knickers plotting, you'll be forced to admit that a lot of blokes plot. It doesn't exactly make you special."

There was a soft laugh from Tom, and Hermione regarded him with surprise. She wouldn't have known he was capable of laughing. "Does this mean you're ready to speak to me?"

Hermione looked at him and said nothing; she didn't trust herself to answer.

"You came in my seventh year," he said.

"I came in your seventh year, did I? Well, I already know I most likely came to bring you to your death, and you apparently seduced me. Well done, Tom Riddle. Congratulations. Another mudblood manipulated ."

"I didn't know you were a mudblood."

"Oh?" Hermione folded her arms. "That explains the seduction."

"I didn't seduce you."

"Then what did you do?"

"I don't know. I tried to kill you and then you killed me—not quite literally—and the next thing you know—"

"Shut up. I want to talk to _me_. I can't trust _you._"

"We've been through this before, Hermione. But then, I know not to hold you responsible for things you haven't done, or heard, or witnessed. Perhaps you can do the same for me. If you need to, bring both sets of bones to me. You can tie me to one or the other of them with the Palegris incantation."

She never stopped watching him, and she let a silence follow his suggestion. Finally, she said: "And then what?" She knew what she was asking.

"And then you can let me guide you, Hermione, in finding the spell Salazar Slytherin used to divide our world from the Faer Land. Because then, I can bring you back. I can resurrect the other you in the Faer Land. See Hermione, it's not you I want. Don't get me wrong. I like you just fine, but," and here he reached forward, slowly, his movement asking permission, and he said: "I just want my girl back." And he leaned forwards, cupping her face, and kissed her gently on the forehead. And she let him.


	11. Chapter 11

LONG Author's Notes: I love you guys especially this week.

Adriane-pwnage! Sorry, I love that word. I'm lame. Two reviews are OK by me. The more I hear the better. I was actually going to ask if there are any readers out there who never read EtScBM but are reading this. So you are one! And you read this before the other? Is it really confusing? Hope not. I'm waiting for your nonsensical future reviews. And glad to turn you on to Masters!

Niamh13- Well, as long as it's in a good way.

Marisa1—I'm really flattered at this whole Livejournal insistence of yours, but I'm a bit stupid. Actually, I started thinking about it, but I have a Livejournal account-ish thing and I never figured out how to connect with communities. I'm so lazy, you know. But I'm thinking. I will let all know if and when I do. I do sort of write for a living, and also teach. I'm working on some stuff that is getting very influenced by this story. And that first favorite line of yours? Is pretty much my favorite of this whole story. I wrote that chapter starting with that line.

SailorHecate- This is becoming a bit Draco v. Tom-ish, nay? All the people that canon Hermione would have nothing to do with, and I'm just throwing them at her. Well, you've got both of them again during this chappie.

Rosiline—well, I won't say exactly what I have planned, but one of your guesses is very on the money. In this chapter I get a bit more into the differences between the Hermiones, because as I continued to write I realized they are very different. The circumstances in EtScBM changed Hermione pretty drastically. This one has had it a bit easier, and is closer to canon Hermione.

Blindfaithoperadiva- that is a very good question. What does Draco want? I encourage you to continue asking yourself as the story goes on.

TheCrescentMoonWriter-thank you thank you, and you will be happy to know that I think a third part of this story is becoming inevitable.

So: I don't know what's wrong with me, but I feel this need to do this completely crazy, gigantic third arc to this story. Already I'm setting up bits in this story that are going to factor into the third arc, and it's going to be… very very big. I guess I just need this story as my mainline. It's getting to be like a drug to me, so much more fun to write than my other stuff. Right now, the tap is on, stuff is coming out, so I guess you can count on these frequent updates for a little while (of course I'll totally jinx myself by saying that). And I keep on bringing in OCs and people outside of Potterverse, which I normally totally hate. Don't worry, it's not going to be a Buffy crossover or anything, let's just say the whole King Arthur thing is looking to be big. One thing in particular in the Founders chapter is going to be really important in the third arc. It is a matter of parentage. See if you can guess. I'll tell you if you're right. Privately, of course.

.((0)).

Hermione was standing in a graveyard with the ghost of Tom Riddle in the wee hours of the morning. She knew she wouldn't sleep until she had the other set of his bones, and he had come with her—had brought her to this spot, actually, in the method peculiar to an incubus. It was a discomforting state of affairs, and Hermione was acutely aware of the discomfort. His presence provoked her curiosity, and gave her the sense of being on the brink of something. She wanted to see what she was on the brink of, but was afraid that if she did, she could never go back. She wished he would leave; it was, as he had pointed out, simple enough to get a hold of his remains.

Lord Voldemort, or the Lord Voldemort as he had been found at Hogwarts, had been buried in the back of an abandoned Muggle church, the final insult to his agenda. His gravestone was unmarked, and in the form of a cross. A mistake, Hermione had thought when she first saw it, and thought of the resurrection implied in the sign. A mistake to adorn those bones with that sign.

"These are my bones," said Tom Riddle's ghost.

Harry had said the person who came through the Hogwarts entrance was Tom Riddle, not Lord Voldemort, a Tom Riddle still in his school robes. Which was why they had compared the sample of his bones to the samples from his residences all those years ago. They had unburied the bones in the same manner she used tonight, a grave robber's spell: Taroctum. Tom Riddle's ghost surveyed her work.

"Can you do any magic?" she asked.

"I haven't got my wand. I have managed some things without it, a sort of wandless magic, but I should like to have my wand back." His tone was utterly repressed; it was something that must be endured, but she could tell that, even in this half-existence of his, it was a great loss.

"Well, at least you can touch," she said. "I don't know of another ghost that can."

"Djinns."

"Djinns are ghosts?"

"Yes. Little known fact."

Hermione eyed the bones floating in front of her with distaste. The last time she had seen it, it had been a corpse, relatively fresh. It had been a fairly ghastly experience, and Hermione had shuddered at the thought of having to unbury Dumbledore to get a genetic sample from him. And now, it turned out, he'd killed her. And now she was talking to Tom Riddle's ghost as companionably as she had spoken to Draco Malfoy earlier that day. "Do other ghosts bother you?" she asked.

"I've been restricted to the Founder's Section of the library—you released me from it, when you came."

Hermione glanced at him and away again. It made her nervous to look at his bright, unreal visage. In the darkness, and when he touched her, he appeared real. In the growing light of twilight, he was opaque, and bright—as if he were a hologram "You've been in the Library all this time?" she asked.

"Well, there's been a lot to read," he said.

Hermione remembered her discussion with Professor Snape. "Is it true that you can only pull a book from the shelf if you're descended from one of the Founders?"

He looked knowingly at her. "You may as well just ask if you're descended from Rowena Ravenclaw."

Hermione's eyes were wide. "I thought it was you."

"Not really, you didn't. You really wondered if it was you."

"Don't tell me what I do and don't think. You're just a ghost."

"The ghost of a remarkable wizard," he said. "You're avoiding the subject."

"Of course I am. It's impossible."

"Yet, it's true. You _are_ descended from her. Go back to the Founder's section and pull out any of her books if you'd like to."

"Another test?"

"Well, you're very skeptical. It seems to be your nature. So you require tests before you believe. But I think you know perfectly well that if you go back far enough—"

"Yeah, I know, there's no telling who your ancestors are. That's exactly what Draco said."

"Draco?"

"Draco Malfoy."

He smirked at her. "So this is what it's like when you give people answers"

"Oh?" She made the mistake of looking directly at him. His eyes were utterly black, the pupil indistinguishable from the iris. It was a bright black, the kind of darkness that consumes light. It pulled, that kind of darkness.

"You were full of secrets when I last knew you." His fingers gently circled her left ear, and the sensation made her shiver.

"Of course I was. You are, after all, Lord Voldemort."

"No. I'm Tom Riddle."

"So you like your common name, now?"

"You misunderstand me. I created Lord Voldemort. He wasn't me. I became him; I was possessed by him—"

"What are you talking about?"

"I created an avatar to instruct me. I wished to be perfect, so I created a perfect being—or, what I thought was perfection. Perfect control, perfect power—I wished my life to be utterly in my hands and meant to teach myself what I needed in order to achieve it." He looked at his bones, now. "My avatar understood I needed to be capable of everything—I suppose I understood, when I created it. It, Lord Voldemort, _was _capable of anything. When we came to a disagreement, it—took my body, and tried to eat my soul."

Hermione watched him as he told this story, as he met her eyes again. She said nothing, even though he was waiting for her to.

"You don't believe me."

"No. It's like you said. I require tests before I believe—before I believe you, anyway."

He smiled, and it was half-bitter. "You have no idea how attractive your refusal to credit me is."

They were standing close to each other, and Tom was solid because he was outlining her jawbone with his finger. "Stop it," she whispered.

He looked at her with a cold, knowing glance. "Why?"

Hermione glared at him. "I have someone," she said.

"Yes," agreed Tom quietly. "You saved him."

She tried to restrain a gasp. "I—you're talking about—he _died_?"

"You were covered in his blood when you came to me."

Hermione stared at him, horrified. She stepped back; the connection broken, Tom Riddle diminished back into ghosthood. "You did that," she whispered. "You did that, and I _saved_ you?"

"You loved me," he said simply. He watched her, and there was in his face the satisfaction of someone who has been successful in their provocation.

Hermione shook her head. "I couldn't have." She glared at him again. "Not _you_. Anyone but you."

"And yet—" he started with his half-bitter smile.

"I must be insane," Hermione whispered to herself. "I was actually thinking of breaking the barrier—"

"You will," said Tom. "I know you well enough. You would never let Slytherin's final curse remain among those of the Five Inhuman Empires, and you need me to help."

Hermione regarded the bones. "You had better hope I do, Tom Riddle." She extended her wand at him and incanted: "Palegris."

The bones drifted out of her grasp towards their owner, fitting themselves into place within the apparition's body. Tom watched her when the spell was complete, assured that she had been convinced. Hermione said nothing; a brusque nod was the only acknowledgement she gave. Then she turned on the spot and disapparated with a pop. The escape was only temporary; Tom would find her again. For now, though she allowed herself the relief of her flat, and Ron, and sleep.

.((0)).

Hermione had spent the entire week in an exhaustive series of tests. They tested Yryll, the mermaid, a unicorn named Chomper by Hagrid. They had tried CAT scans, neural mapping, holographic imaging, neuromagicological surveys, and long, long sessions over the Penseive. There was nothing. Yryll's brain continued to look exactly like a muggle brain (one of the group's groundbreaking findings had been the "seat of magic" in the inner part of a human's brain; it was possible to scan a person for signs of magic, now). Chomper's brain continued to look like a horse's. Having done every test possible, Hermione had come to Hogwarts again in order to speak to Firenze about participating in the scans.

Before she saw him, however, there was another test Hermione needed to perform. She nodded to Madam Pince on her way into the Hogwart's Library. She surveyed the students working at the tables; several were staring at her. It was strange that there was no longer anyone at Hogwarts who had been there while she'd attended school. She was a stranger and an adult and perhaps a little famous as Harry Potter's friend and as a controversial researcher; some of the people stared. Hermione ignored them and disappeared among the stacks. She wandered among the stacks for a while, avoiding the Founder's Room for now. She had not had any time for nostalgia, last time. She hadn't been hungry for it. Now she was. She drifted into the Arithmancy section. Dundy and Gurbabbit and Owenson—old friends, all. Arithmancy had provided her with the clearest insight into magic of any of her studies. She had always believed the roots of magic were here, and her instincts had been proven correct by Ravenclaw's narrative. Everything came from Arithmancy, and to Arithmancy, everything returned.

She sighed, and turned. Her mind had to drift, a bit, before she could begin to find the path that she had previously found. She drifted among the books—here was the section with dream writing, here a turn, a turn, and—

It was so big. Again, Hermione noticed the table cluttered with books, as if it had just been left. Only, the books were exactly as they had been the last time she was there, and they were blanketed with dust. She ran her fingers across Gryffindor's section, and her fingers tingled. It was almost as if she could feel the remnant of hot violence that was a permanent aspect of Godric Gryffindor's magic. She inspected her thumb and forefinger curiously, but the feeling quickly died away.

There it was, silver and blue. Hermione had no idea, no idea at all that she had done this before. Only, before, she had no idea whose books these were, and no idea of the condition of their extraction. She had innocently pulled her foremother's book from the shelves that belonged to her. Now, she did it knowing what she was doing.

She chose a medium-sized book, the title printed on the spine: Fundamentals of Arithmancy. It came out easily; it opened easily. The title page bore the names LaFay and DuLac. She shook her head. She was glad she hadn't known she was related to Ravenclaw when she read her history. She was repulsed by many of her actions, by the amorality in her search for knowledge. She wasn't sure what she thought of it; Hermione was naturally secure enough with her identity as a muggle-born that the prestige of the descent meant nothing to her. It was very strange, and it opened up some very interesting books to her, which was excellent of course, but it meant nothing more than that. And it was strange to think that her ancestor had been not quite human—not at all human, in fact. She was a being who looked like a human but who acted from different impulses—her magic and power had insured it.

Hermione tucked the book into her bag rather guiltily. She was aware she couldn't take it out, since it wasn't on the records and the room was probably forbidden in the first place, but she felt bad about it, and vowed to return the copy as soon as she had finished it. Maybe it would provide Hermione some clarity—it was something she could use now in the face of these things. Hermione left the library and descended a staircase. She had to wait a few moments while it shifted to another spot on the ground floor. Hermione jumped lightly off of it and headed to the first floor Divination room. Hermione couldn't believe Trelawney was still here—the world's most useless subject had two teachers? She couldn't forgive the situation.

The room that Firenze taught in had once been Dumbledore's office. Hermione was one of the few people who knew that fact—it was a piece of trivia from Hogwarts, a History. It had never been anything more than an intriguing little fact until now, and on the threshold of his door Hermione had to again confront the idea that Dumbledore had killed her.

That wasn't it. That—it just didn't stick. Hermione couldn't make the sentence work inside her head: Dumbledore killed her. She couldn't imagine it; she tried the picture in her head, and was blind to it. But she realized it, and understood, and knew what it meant. Dumbledore wasn't who she'd thought he was. He was—evil? She had seen Harry's eyes when he spoke of Dumbledore, and seen betrayal there, betrayal equal to hers. He had broken his trust. But then, so had she herself. That was all there was to content herself with before she knocked on Firenze's door.

The handsome centaur opened the door. It was a bit shocking—he was a particularly beautiful centaur, but it was his centaur-ness that disturbed her, and Hermione realized she had never seen anything very nonhuman at any wizarding function, excepting house elves. There were never goblins at Bank charities—she had noticed that since she attended one with Fleur.

"Hello," she said politely, finally looking at his handsome face, when she realized there was a peculiar expression on its face. "Um, is there anything wrong?"

"You—oh! Mione. I haven't seen you since—what happened?"

Hermione managed to fold her arms and fix the centaur with a rather tired expression. "You, too? Why on earth didn't I meet any of the people I apparently encountered before I went back in time? It's so improbable." Hermione realized, as she said this, that although she had seen Firenze, he had never seen _her._ Alicia Silversmith had never discovered her, and nor had Voldemort, and now here was Firenze, who had every opportunity to discover her—it was very lucky that she didn't like Divination.

Firenze was eying her. "Apparently? You don't recognize me, do you?"

Hermione cocked her head to the side. "Well, I recognize you as one half of Hogwarts' Divination staff, but otherwise, no—I expect I would have made some attempt to speak to you if I had known who you were—and who were you? To me, I mean? How did I know you?"

"You wanted to know about time. You came to us."

Hermione drew her eyebrows together. "Was I daft?"

"Perhaps you were. The tribe tried to kill you. They did, I think, but your friend saved you; he brought you back right in front of me."

"My friend?" Hermione asked, looking at him curiously.

"Yes. Tom."

Hermione clutched at the doorframe. "Why do people keep on insisting on saying things that make me desperate to lose consciousness?" she muttered bitterly.

"What?"

"Tom Riddle," said Hermione. She couldn't help but glare at the centaur's innocent expression. You know who he is, don't you?"

Firenze regarded her with a fond expression; the way someone looks at someone they'd last seen as a child. Hermione had no way to know it was the other way around. She realized his expression wasn't so innocent. "I know who he became, in one world. I know what he meant to be, when I knew him. But then, I didn't know him well, and I distrusted him at first."

Hermione clenched her eyes shut. "I can't believe it," she began, again, for the thousandth time. "I don't understand how I—could have made the choices I made."

Firenze looked at her. "Yes, you are different. The same, and different, than her. You are older than her, but she would never have grown up into you."

The usual bottomless curiosity opened up. "Why not?" she demanded.

"She was—very, very separate from everyone. She was different, among her own kind, among us. Very gifted, and given a—terrible fate. You are not her. You have not sacrificed yourself and your happiness for others."

"She?" said Hermione faintly, and more faintly still: "I need to sit down."

"Yes, I'm sorry, I haven't considered." He took a chair out from among the student desks; the teacher had no use for one. Hermione sat down gratefully. "Among my own kind, we have many different kinds of consciousnesses. My father lives a backwards life. I have lived it backwards with him since a child, and it is joyous. We find the different worth celebrating. We accommodate the different, the special, the unique. Despite," he said, suddenly averting his eyes, "our Laws."

"So you think I should take joy in this—other life of mine?"

"You should take what you can from it."

"I don't know what to take from it."

"A second look. You haven't given anything more than one try."

"How do you know?"

"I suppose I don't."

She contemplated her folded hands in her lap. "You know, this all—I didn't come here about that. I—well, it's a bit of a story. The short of it is, I'd like to run some tests on you. Specifically—is it true you can't travel past magical boundaries?"

Firenze nodded. "We can arrange transport between certain areas, but it is difficult. We are strained when we are outside the bounds and we suffer for it. If we walk out unprotected—some who commit suicide, do that."

"It sounds physical."

"It is," he agreed.

She thought about it for a minute. "Maybe I've been wrong. Maybe this whole time, it hasn't been the brain, it's been the body." Her mind immediately set to formulating new tests. The ghost of Tom Riddle was right; she did need tests. Although this was no test of skepticism but an attempt to discover the principles that governed the phenomena—in this case, the centaurs' inability to leave their forests.

She knew Firenze would be unable to come to St. Mungo's, restricted as he was. That, and the centaur's aversion to magicians, had been one of the reason they hadn't ever tested a centaur. Some of the equipment would need to be upgraded, changed. There was new equipment to construct, to inspect the immediate area of the body Hermione thought of—the nervous system. She'd have to take some of Allistaire's monitering equipment.

"Can I test you, if I do it here?" she asked, confident of a positive answer.

"I'd like you to give me the long of it, first."

"Oh? Yes, well. I do have the book with me. Did you want to read it before you answered me?"

"Yes, I would like that," he said peaceably.

Hermione wasn't wholly content with this answer. She pulled the book from her satchel hesitantly, and extended it to him. "When can you let me know?" she asked. She'd work on the equipment anyhow—there was no point in delaying that, since it might eventually suit the purpose.

"I will contact you tomorrow."

"By floo? I'm not often at home."

"I have a Telebrain."

"Oh. You do?" Hermione beamed despite herself. She always felt the pride of an inventor when she saw people using her creation.

"Fascinating piece of equipment. I am told you are considered the godmother of immunizing technology from magic."

"Muggle technology, yes."

"Centaur technology can be immunized—most of my Tribe's technology is immunized—I'm not sure which wizard they found to do it. I have heard of the Mermish using some of the spells, too. I believe it was the wizard Agualirini who furnished them with the spells."

Hermione blinked. "Wow. I had no idea. That's absolutely fascinating. This could be quite useful for C.R.A.P.'s purposes, you know."

"Ah, yes. It is a pity that centaurs eschew even those who would work with us."

"Is there any way you could get your hands on some of the technology? Perhaps there are books concerned with centaur technology."

"There are, but my Tribe has them all, and they do not part with their books easily." He was giving her that look again, as if he remembered her as a child and she remembered him not at all. It made her feel at a distinct disadvantage. "They have books that you gave to them."

"They do? How strange."

"Yes, they were badly paid for."

Hermione caught the tone in his voice. "Because they tried to kill me?"

"Yes. I didn't want them to take the books after that, but they were too valuable. They were books written in the future, you see. Of course, by now time has caught up to them, but they are quite valuable."

"Of course. They would be an invaluable tool for your predictions."

"Not quite. You see, you came to us not knowing whether or not time could be changed. You wanted to know this because you wished to change it. The books do not predict. Substantially, they are the same, but you did change time. The books are proof of that. Many of them do not have exact corollaries in this time. Substantially, things seem to happen as they did the first time around, but there have been variations. People have been born before or after they were meant to be born, different names have been given to people, certain events have not occurred, certain events have occurred which have no accounts. You moved the stars themselves. It is one of the greatest acts of magic the world has ever seen, and my people will never forgive you for it."

Hermione folded her hands into her lap and stared at them. "Everything is different than I thought it was. I changed time? I invented a Time Machine? I was… I…"

"You have simply diverged. Think of your other self as a twin, as someone who did as she did because of her circumstance. You are different. You aren't quite her. Still, you are yourself."

Hermione shook her head. "No, that's not right. There's no comfort to be had. If I could do it once I could do it again." And she thought of the cool kiss of her incubus, the golden bed, the unreal transportation that his presence induced. There was temptation, there. Hermione had not ever really been confronted with that kind of temptation. She wanted not to give into it, but how strong could she be if she already had?

"It is the same as it always is. You can do whatever you want. No matter how difficult your choices, they still belong to you."

Hermione said nothing, only nodded. He was right. She knew he was. She just hoped that what she chose to do would be right.

.((0)).

Hermione snuck into Allistaire's room while Padma ran clearance on family members, friends, and Malfoys. He was sleeping, so Hermione was able to check his progress at her leisure. She smiled when she looked at her face and hoped Padma had distanced the muggle technician from Allistaire's family. The results were competent, but they weren't pretty. There was no longer a red stain distorting half his face—that skin had been replaced by his own. Only, the color didn't match exactly, and the texture wasn't pleasing at all. He looked like a muggle burn victim years after healing.

Hermione danced her wand along the side of his face, searching for remnants of the dragon's burn. But it seemed the doctor had done his job. There seemed to be no remaining pollution. The scar tissue on Allistaire's face now was the result of the skin grafts; no more of the formerly burned skin remained.

Hermione began to mutter the incantation she had used on him before. She was confident, now, that she could make the burn disappear—it seemed like nothing compared to everything else. She searched for the veins and musculature, tweaking them more or les into place as she went along. There was still healing to be done before her work was complete. The support system had to heal itself before she could heal the surface. As she finished the last of her passes, the boy blinked his eyes open.

"You," he said sleepily, and blinked a few more times before sitting up. "I haven't seen you since you fixed my mouth."

"You've improved a lot. The skin grafts are doing their work."

"Yes, it's better," he said, and lapsed into silence while Hermione checked his monitors. "Are you going to do anything?"

"I already have, but you won't see any difference."

"Will it make a difference?"

"Yes."

"Will what make a difference?" asked Draco Malfoy as he strode into the room. Padma was striding in after him.

"I swear, Malfoy, you have been getting entirely too comfortable in this laboratory," Padma was saying. Draco lazily draped his coat over his chair and greeted his friend, who greeted him back, if a bit spiritlessly. "This is our workplace. If I tell you not to go into Allistaire's room, then don't go."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You only told me not to go in here because Granger's here. You wouldn't know we're old friends."

"Actually, she specifically asked me to keep you out."

"True," Hermione confirmed quickly.

"Really? I would have thought you were more leery of running into Mrs. Silversmith."

Hermione didn't suppress a shiver at the thought; she remembered the expression she had last seen on Mrs. Silversmith's face well. "Well, anyways, I've finished. I've just got to get a few things together, just a test kit I need to prepare for when I get back."

"Will you be ready to go in the morning?" asked Draco.

"Yes, of course," said Hermione.

"Go where?" asked Padma, all ears.

"Mabon," said Hermione. "To see the place the dragon came from."

"You're going with him?" she asked in a skeptical tone.

"I have a summer house there," said Draco.

"He knows the path Allistaire was on," said Hermione.

Padma gave them a reproving glance, particularly Hermione. "_Really_," she said. "You're staying in the same house?"

"Well," said Hermione helplessly, "if he's got to be there anyway."

"Oh thanks, Granger," said Draco.

"It's not like you're looking forward to having me stay at your place," she returned.

"Of course I don't. You'll litter my home with stray clothes to trick my house elves into freedom, you'll organize flowcharts of how many books you can read, have read, should read, want to read, will never read, and will read over and over and over again."

"You could write my diary for me, Malfoy," Hermione sneered.

"Oh, yeah, this is going to work out real well," said Padma with a broad smile on her face. She moved closer to Allistair to inspect him. "This is really amazing. I had no idea muggles could do this much without magic."

"Muggles use their brains the way we use our magic," said Hermione. It was her perpetual explanation, with her partial condemnation of magical society smuggled in. Wizards might have one over on muggles due to their magic, but difficulty had a way of bringing out the best in people. Hermione believed muggles were more prone to genius than wizards were.

"Imagine if wizards used their brains the way muggles do," said Allistaire quietly.

"You agree?" asked Draco skeptically.

"That muggle doctor-person did more than a mediwitch could. It looked really complicated, to. There were carrying cases of instruments and tools, and he was talking the whole time about how the room wasn't sterile enough."

"Yes, wizarding society could do with a bit of germ theory," said Hermione.

Draco rolled his eyes at her and muttered something that sounded very like "Propaganda." Nevertheless, he walked over to Allistaire, standing next to Padma.

"One at a time," said Allistaire. "I swear if no one ever looks at me again when I get out of here it will be a relief."

Draco stood back. "It does look better," Draco agreed grudgingly. "Although," he continued under his breath to Hermione, "can you do something about the texture?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Do you think you can make it like it was before?" asked Allistaire.

"I don't want to say that," said Hermione. "I haven't ever done this before."

"You haven't?" asked Draco heatedly. "You've been using him as a test subject?"

"If I hadn't," Hermione explained to him patiently, "His face would still be burned."

Draco looked again at his friend's face, this time with a critical eye, as if he was sure there was a defect to be found. Hermione tutted.

There was the sound of the fire roaring. Padma sighed, and headed through the door to see who had come in. Hermione turned to follow her.

"Where are you going?" asked Draco. "Don't you have more work to do with Allistaire?"

"No, I've finished. It's best left alone to heal a bit on its own before I do anything else. Why don't you go home for the week, Allistaire? You're out of danger now."

"When can I go?"

Hermione suppressed a smile. "Now, if you like."

"Mind if I go with you to the Manor for the night? Nana's being a nightmare," Allistaire said to Draco, and Hermione took the opportunity to exit. She came face to face with Harry.

"Oh. You. Hi," said Hermione, stricken.

He was looking straight at her in that uncanny way he had. "Hermione, we need to talk."

"I know," said Hermione.

"My flat?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know if I can talk right now," she said.

A distinctly guilty look entered Harry's eyes, and she was sorry for it. "Why not?"

"It's just.." Hermione searched for words. "When I'm with you, I feel like I've done something… horrible." She was looking anywhere but his face, now. "And I have, Harry. Do you think I don't know what… I _did_? Do you think I don't understand how—and it was me, wasn't it? It's something I could do, isn't it? That's the worst part, and when I'm with you, I can't forget it."

There was a silence, but Hermione was too afraid to look at Harry. There was an awkward hand on her shoulder, and then Harry was pulling her into a clumsy embrace. "You're my best friend, Hermione. I need you."

Hermione sighed against his chest. "Okay. Okay. Thank you. I've got to—I'm still trying to find some things out."

"Did you see the bones Malfoy said he had?"

"Yes, she did," came a cold, drawling voice behind her. They abruptly parted.

"Malfoy," said Harry shortly and tersely.

"Excuse me for interrupting," said Draco with a smile on his face. He brushed past Hermione as he walked towards Harry. Draco was slightly taller and liked to use any opportunity that arose to prove it to him. "Do you and the Weasel just switch her off between you?"

"Ugh, Malfoy," said Hermione in weariness and disgust.

Harry raised his wand to Draco's chest and raised his eyebrows.

Malfoy simply watched him. "What, does it upset you to be associated with a mudblood?"

"One more chance," said Harry.

"Harry, honestly."

"Death Eater," whispered Harry.

Draco's eyes narrowed and flashed and he drew his wand, but before he could get it up Harry had taken it from his grip with a silent Accio. Draco tried to hold onto his wand, but the spell was too strong.

"I hear I get my charms skills from my mother's side," observed Harry neutrally.

"Potter—"

"Malfoy," said Hermione again, actually walking between the two. "And Harry. Not here."

"I should be going," said Harry.

"You really should," said Draco.

Harry managed, but only barely, to ignore him. "Tomorrow?" he said to Hermione.

"Oh, can't tomorrow."

"Well, can I drop by your flat?"

"I was just going to go to Mabon to see the place where Allistaire saw the dragon."

"Oh, right, the dragon," said Harry, looking into Allistaire's room.

"Brilliant, Potter. Oh, right, the dragon. How could you forget about this illegal and allegedly talking dragon that attacked my friend?"

Hermione could see Harry's jaw working, but again he ignored Draco. "Monday?" she asked. Harry nodded, turned abruptly, and headed for the fireplace.

"My wand, Potter!"

Harry turned around and threw the wand at Draco. It hit him on the nose and Harry laughed. Hermione managed to hide her laughter behind her cupped hand.

Draco help his nose and held his wand up, but Harry was gone before he managed to get off a spell.

"Damage my office and you'll pay," said Hermione.

"Interesting that you didn't mention who you're going to Mabon with," said Draco, holding the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, and I'm sure you were up all night telling all your friends about going to Mabon with me tomorrow."

"No," he said. "But I wouldn't deny it. Or lie about it. Since when did Gryffindors lie?"

"Since I started to spend time with a Slytherin," she replied.

"A Slytherin who knows a lot of things your friends don't know."

"Are you trying to threaten me?"

"I'm re-evaluating you, Granger," he said with a smile. It was the worst insult he'd offered all day.


	12. Chapter 12

Sailor Hecate—Thanks a bunch. The conversation with Firenze became necessary to bring up this idea that this Hermione is a bit different from the one in Stars. I feel like Hermione was thrown into such a high-pressure situation last time that she changed kind of fundamentally. I think she became more magically powerful by confronting Tom—and Grindelwald! And I think her morals became very different. But then this Hermione is almost more intellectual than the other Hermione (Mione). Her abilities as an inventor and her interest in combining muggle technology and magic has given her a lot of tools Mione might not have. And she's older and probably more stable and mature and her morals remain pretty much what they were in canon. Anyway, I'll probly bring the centaurs into this again, what with their library and all.

Adrian—what visuals you give me. Inky paper-based starbabies running around. I'm glad to know this fic is understandable without the predecessor—and thanks for reading the predecessor, btw. And here is the first half of Hermione's adventures in Mabon with Draco. Tom will come around in the next chapter.

Sad Stephen—you are catching all of my mistakes. I don't actually get confused by apostrophes, but I type really fast—I'm always noticing "and" s where "an" s should be, and if you notice how close s and d are on my keyboard, I'm always making unintentional tense mistakes—dances instead of danced. You'll probably continue to see mistakes. I dig writing this fic, but checking up on it and sending it to a beta and reworking and re-editing—too much trouble for me, honestly. That would take all the fun out of it for me.

The Crescent Moon Writer—and hopefully it'll get better. I have a few very big surprises in store.

Scarecrow—you've got it. Hermione and Draco will never fall in love, Draco will not be fluffy—and he's got some concerns I haven't made anyone aware of at the moment. I mean, what's the fun of hooking her up with a bad boy if he's not bad?

Blingfaithoperadiva—yeah, Draco. Gotta love him for the drama at least.

No cliffhanger this installment, just some interesting information. I'll be out for about a week or so, going into the field, so I won't be able to update until I'm back. Dunno if I'll get another chapter up before I go, so don't get your pants in a twist.

.((0)).

Hermione was surprised when she received an owl telling her to meet Draco at Malfoy Manor on Saturday morning, since she had assumed they would be meeting at the Leaky Cauldron. Seeing as she would already be staying at Draco's place, she didn't want to start the weekend out at another of his houses—and it was just so silly for people to have more than once house, particularly if they were wizards—after all, packing was hardly difficult with magic. Hermione sighed. The portkey over was at the Leaky Cauldron anyway, and she had been ready to leave when she received the owl, so she made the usual trip over and portkeyed to the area she remembered from a few days ago.

Draco was nowhere in sight. Hermione scanned for him as she adjusted her blazer, which had gotten somewhat disheveled in the portkeying. "Typical," she muttered.

"Master Malfoy said to bring Miss Granger right over," came a voice somewhere in the region of Hermione's kneecaps. She looked down and blinked at the house elf.

"Binky?" said Hermione. "I thought you were at Hogwarts."

"Master Malfoy brought Binky back," said the house elf. Upon closer inspection, Hermione was satisfied that the house-elf was no longer hitting the sauce. She hoped it was the house-elf's own decision and not one that her masters had made.

"I know the way," said Hermione, straightening up, when there a tug on the bottom of her blazer. She looked down.

"There's no need for that, Miss," said the piping little voice, and with a crack they disapparated into the receiving hall of Malfoy Manor.

Hermione blinked. Draco was reclining sideways in a chair in front of the fire, his legs dangling over the arm, reading the Daily Prophet. He peeked over it at her and began to fold it.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

"It's only eleven, you know."

Draco shrugged. "It's a bit of a ways to Mabon."

"Why? We aren't apparating?"

"No, we'll take the passageway over."

"The passageway?"

"Penbridge and Malfoy Manor are linked by secret passageways. There's a travelling couch in between. It takes about an hour."

"Oh, you're just showing off. Why can't we just apparate?"

"Well, if you'd like, you can apparate in an hour and a half, but Penbridge must be opened from the inside, or else no one can enter."

"Oh? What is the protection, exactly? A Tesslera Incantation?"

"It's rude to ask people about their locks, you know."

Hermione shrugged. "Fine. I'll figure it out anyway. Let's go."

Draco stood and followed Binky, who was levitating a suitcase in front of her.

"Didn't you pack?"

Hermione just jangled her beaded purse at him in response.

Draco eyed her tailored shirt and trousers. "You look presentable. I can permit you at Penbridge."

"I always dress like this. And I'm already at your regular house—"

"Do not describe Malfoy Manor as a house," Malfoy protested wearily.

"It is a house."

"Wizards visit Malfoy Manor during the season the way muggles would visit a museum. Belleblue Jardin is famous—"

"Fine. Malfoy Manor. Just enough about your damn house already." Hermione walked past, as if she knew where she was going, which she did _not_, and Draco barely restrained the urge to strangle her.

"This way," he said, and Hermione corrected herself without apology or shame and followed him. They went down a corridor and then down—Hermione was afraid he would take her to the Dungeons as a joke. But it remained freshly painted and carpeted. Draco led her to an ornamented door, and opened it to a strange sight. On one side, a corridor led off a long, long way into darkness. Just beyond the door were two very comfortable looking couches set across from each other. A table set with tea was between them. Binky popped in and began to pour as Draco seated himself and gestured for her to do the same.

The door closed and Hermione sat down. As soon as she did, the couches began to move, floating with the table down the corridor, smoothly and rapidly. Although they were floating, it felt as if they were still on solid ground, and no movement of theirs disturbed the couches. Hermione watched as the wall retreated and eventually succumbed to darkness.

"Thank you, Binky," said Draco, taking a sip of his tea.

"I'll hand it to you," said Hermione. "This is really neat."

"Neat?"

Hermione sipped on her tea. "Yes, neat. It's a fun way to travel. Certainly better than the Knight Bus."

"Ugh, I've never been on that disaster."

Hermione shrugged. "It's fun the first time."

"Let me guess. You use it regularly."

"No. I use the Tube regularly."

"The what?"

"The Underground?"

Draco stared at her for a moment. "You mean the muggle underground transport system? Why would you do that? It's even worse than living in a flat."

"Never been in one before?"

"Of course not," he replied indignantly.

Hermione just smiled and shook her head. "You'll never make me ashamed, you know."

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose you're correct. You _are_ shameless."

"Would Master and Miss like something to eat?" asked Binky.

"Bring us some cakes and jam, Binky."

"Yes, sir," she said, and disappeared with a pop.

"Why did you bring her back?" asked Hermione.

"Aren't you glad I did? She was a wreck at Hogwarts."

"I know. So—why?"

Draco shrugged.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"So?"

"One of the other ones died," said Draco, but Hermione could tell he was lying and she had an unfortunate suspicion that he might have done it from a good impulse. No matter.

Hermione turned to the long wall of the corridor moving past them, painted a deep red. "You should have pictures on the wall."

"We're going too fast. It doesn't seem like it, but we are."

"Weird. Where is the light coming from? It's dark everywhere but here."

"Spellwork."

"Lumos?"

"Yes, if you must know."

"I must."

Binky apparated back with a pop, carrying two towering plates of sweets. She levitated them to the table, where they landed with a deep thud. "Master?" she asked.

"Yes, can you bring the Wizarding Wireless?"

"Is there room for it, sir?"

"Oh, just set it on the flying carpet, you know, the one for familiars that Mother has."

"Yes, Master," she said, and disappeared with a pop.

Hermione contemplated the spot Binky had disappeared from. She wondered what the House Elves' place had been during the time of the Inhuman Empires, why they weren't counted as one of the Inhuman Empires. There had been no mention of them in Rowena's account of her life.

"Sulking because I don't have a Telebrain?" Draco inquired.

"Ugh, Draco, honestly. No. It does well enough on its own without you owning one."

"So it does well?"

"Yes, very well."

"Why do you live in a flat, then?"

"Because I live on my own, and it's senseless to waste money, and I've lived there ever since I graduated. I'm perfectly comfortable there."

Draco shook his head. "You are unaccountable."

"And you are snobbish and posh."

"Your snobbish and posh is my wealthy and tasteful."

Hermione rolled her eyes and Draco smirked, satisfied with his small victory, having the last word on a subject. Binky returned with the Wizarding Wireless. She unrolled a very small carpet—more of a mat, really, and dropped it. It hovered in the air beside them, moving with the table and couch. She placed it on the flying carpet.

Draco adjusted the dial, and Hermione immediately tried to convince him to turn it to a news channel. Draco resisted and settled on a music channel, but Hermione fidgeted, sighed, and turned the dial back to the news.

"I don't want to listen to people talking."

"And I don't want to listen to people with no pitch or sense of melody."

"Sorry, we don't broadcast muggle music."

"Mad Muggle Rock Show," said Hermione. "The kids love it."

"Ew," said Draco.

"Do you have a classical channel?"

"A what?"

"Really really old music?"

Draco thought for a moment. He turned the dial and the station settled. A few separate instruments were working slowly together to form a melody. It was strange but familiar, as if it were a muggle composer she'd never heard of—but it was also rather primitive. It used the same principles as the classical composers, but in a simpler way, played in a less precise way. It sounded somewhat disjointed until your ears grew used to it.

"Who is this? Who made this song?" asked Hermione.

"No idea."

"Oh… Do you know how old it is?"

"All this stuff—I think this is really old, like a folk song from before the Statute of Secrecy."

"Huh. Interesting."

"Interesting why?"

"It's a remnant from when wizards and muggles interacted."

"How do you figure?"

"Because I know muggle music, obviously."

"That's it, I'm changing the channel. This is boring me anyway." He switched the channel, and Hermione folded her arms, but after a few moments she smiled. She continued to smile as the song went on, and Draco narrowed his eyes. "What?" he demanded.

"You'll see," she said.

"I'll see? Where is your wand? Let me see your hands!"

She was laughing. "No, it's not that. Just listen."

And, with that, the song ended, and a voice came on over the Wireless. "Hello, hello, wizards and witches, this is Lee Jordan riding into your homes over the Wireless _and_ the Telebrain, to bring you our finest hour of the day, the Mad Muggle Rock Show, bringing you the weirdest, the coolest, the best music from our friends on the other side of the Secrecy Statute. You know, the ones who wear jeans. That was The Clash with London Calling, heralding in our theme of the week: Punk. Rock. Next, we're going to throw you into the deep end with The Misfits: Mommy Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight? They're Americans, obviously."

Hermione was still laughing. "Oh, Lee!" she said. She sobered a bit, waited for the song to start, and broke out in a torrent of giggles when a man who sounded like a demon began to scream—or was he trying to sing? No, obviously the man was being tortured or killed. Then there were—guitars? Were those guitars?

Draco looked at her in horror. "This is—this is music? And you were complaining about wizarding music?"

"Oh, it was that one song. It grates on my ears."

"This doesn't?"

"It's a funny song," she said, shrugging. "I don't own any of their albums, but…"

"What are albums?"

"Collections of songs."

"Why would you collect songs?"

"To sell them."

"Muggles sell songs? How primitive."

"Wizard singers get recompensed. You know that."

"Yes, but they don't sell music—they're compensated from the Arts Foundations."

Hermione was silent for a moment, considering it. "Yes, it is nice that wizards don't." She took a sip of her tea and found it cold. "Sorry, is there more tea?"

"Why don't you call Binky?"

"Aren't you the only one who can?"

"No. All my guests can." He waited for her to do it, but she didn't.

"I can't," she said.

"Oh, but you can let me do it for you?"

Hermione looked at her lap, her eyebrows furrowed. Draco smiled, about to snap his fingers for Binky, when she looked up at him again. "You're right. It is hypocritical." She tilted her head to the side and smiled a bit. "If I were to be true to my beliefs, I would request you not to use your house-elf and if you were to do it, I would have to hex you."

Draco sighed and pulled out his pocket watch. "Thank Merlin we're more than halfway there.

.((0)).

Draco's house in Mabon was a quaint enough cottage—although a very large and luxuriously constructed cottage. It stood on the middle of a small island in the middle of a pond. You got to it and from it by stepping stones, which rose up out of the water to greet a walker's feet. Hermione followed Draco with a little trepidation. The stones were still wet, and although they were huge, they didn't come with railings. Draco moved easily across them, wand in his hand.

They had already settled into the house. Needing no time for refreshments owing to the amount of them on the way over, they had agreed to set immediately off for the Blue Forest. Hermione changed her shoes and Draco changed his entire outfit. As Hermione hopped off the last slippery step of the walkway, she turned to see the cottage. She was pretty sure expansion spells had been set off on the inside of the house. She teased the air with her wand as they went through the place where the ward was cast; she could sense, very slightly, its aftermath in the air.

"Hah," she said, satisfied. "I knew it. It was the Tesslera Incantation."

"I don't even know why you ask," said Draco, and after a small, meditative silence he said, "That's not true. I know exactly why you ask. You want everyone to know you know everything. You just have to point out every single thing you know."

"You just can't stand that I'm smarter than you, can you?"

"Oh, here it is. The whole truth. You're smarter than me, hmm? Would you ask Potty and the Weasel the same question?"

"Every day, pretty much," said Hermione. "But they never understand. Such is the burden of unprecedented genius."

Draco almost—almost, thank Merlin—laughed. Luckily for him, Hermione didn't notice, and they ascended one yellow-green hill after another in the direction of the Blue Forest. It was named after its Blue Fir trees, which even in the distance were a blue-gray smear over the horizon. They spread out past the horizon, past the vanishing point. As they drew closer to the Blue Forest, it appeared to grow denser. In an apron around the forest, shorter green trees sparsely peopled the hills. They were thick with underbrush, into which paths had been cut. No one, beside Allistaire, had ever gotten into trouble, but Draco said he'd gone off on a different path. At first they took one of the main routes, entering the Blue Forest proper after approximately 100 meters. They followed it in a circuitous way, and then branched off into a series of turns interrupted by periods of following the paths a long way.

"Do you know the Blue Forest well?" asked Hermione, panting.

"Yeah. Well enough to know Allistaire shouldn't have been on that path. But the little idiot ran ahead anyway."

"This is really a hike."

"Yes, it takes some time to get there. We were walking the whole day, but we stopped at the pond and we went a different way to the path Allistaire was on."

"Did you see the dragon?"

"Yes—I saw it shoot the flames at Allistaire, although I didn't see them hit him."

"You didn't hear it speak?"

"No. Does it matter? Haven't enough weird things started to happen for you to believe it?"

"Science has no use for belief. I'll confirm or infirm the phenomena based on evidence—you know, I'm not looking at you and I can still see exactly what kind of face you're making."

"Well, if you'd just talk with your mouth instead of your twat sometimes…"

"Ugh. Malfoy."

"No witty rejoinder?"

And take us further down the dark path of sexual implication? No thanks, I prefer my repartee clothed and decent. You know, I can't believe what you said to Harry yesterday—"

"The threesome thing? I knew it would rile you up. The truth always does."

"I am getting so close to slapping you."

"If you try it—"

"Try it? I managed it without much trying last time around."

"Speaking of which, I still owe you for that—there." Draco had stopped, and was pointing. "There it is."

A long time ago, when Hermione was still at Hogwarts and her parents were still alive, Hermione had visited the Louvre with her parents. Her mother wanted to find the Mona Lisa before anything else. Hermione had always heard how small and underwhelming it was, and expected nothing much. But when they got to the crowd around the painting, Hermione was mesmerized by it. It was—itself. Not a picture, not a reprint, but the thing itself. Leonardo's hand had made this, even perhaps his blood, and Hermione could feel it. It was the aura of a special object—whether it was magic or something else, she couldn't say.

Seeing the path for the first time, Hermione felt the same thing she'd felt all those years ago. This was different, unique, special. It was a thing heard of, represented, told about, but seldom seen for itself. Hermione saw it now, felt the same sense of disembodiment she had felt looking at a muggle painting, and felt her eyes prickle and tear.

"This is it," she breathed, walking up the path.

"You're going to go down it?"

Hermione simply nodded and continued to walk.

"Wait—wait for me," said Draco nervously, running to catch up with her. He looked around him, at the small winding path; he didn't see what Hermione saw. But then, his fate was not so closely interwoven with the boundary of the Faer Land as Hermione's was.

Neither would have been able to saw when the path changed, exactly. The colors were keener, but not strangely keen. There was a movement within the vegetation, an animal partially seen, which didn't conform to any known forest inhabitant. Then the light changed, tilted to an odd angle, overbalanced into green, and the leaves became red, became flowers, and fluttered to the ground, coming to rest on the ground as slips of parchment. Hermione picked up a piece of paper with the words: "stranger forming" on it; it disappeared from between her fingers.

"Can you reign in your Gryffindorish tendencies? I'd like to not return to the real world with three noses."

"Oh, lighten up, Malfoy. I think three noses would suit you."

"Well, I think having a bush on top of your head would suit you better than your hair, so—" but she wasn't listening, so Draco gave up. She was kneeling by a large tulip that had sprung up. "Stop touching things!" Draco ordered.

The tulip melted like wax and spread itself out in a thinning red pool. The pool changed color, was deep and clear and made of water: a pond. Hermione kneeled over it.

"Honestly," said Draco.

Hermione put her finger in the water.

"Now you're just asking for it," he said.

Hermione closed her eyes. "I can feel it. It connects to something."

"I hope you realize I won't save you if something happens."

She was silent, and Draco watched her a bit worriedly. "Um, Hermione, shouldn't we be—"

"Shhh," she said. "Something's coming." She stood. "Let's go."

"What?"

"Run," she said, with a serious face, and then took off a moment before Draco. She quickly fell behind him—he was taller and a good runner. He heard a shriek from behind him and, in a nightmare of déjà vu, saw the blue-lit figure of a creature, dragging Hermione behind it by her feet. It was the same creature who had taken her into the mirror world the first time. It was wet-looking, rotten. Hermione was doubled up trying to free her ankle from its grasp.

Draco lifted his wand. "Sectumsempra!" he shouted at the creature. His spell drifted out of his wand slowly, and from the first moment he knew there was something wrong. A pink light came out, it fizzed, short circuited, and then beamed straight up in an orange flame before dying. When Draco returned his gaze, the creature was now dragging Hermione though an alleyway of burning poles that exactly resembled the last portion of his spell.

"It's no good like that!" shouted Hermione. "It's not the same here, magic."

"Yeah, I'd figured that out, strangely enough!" shouted Draco back, running after her. The creature was moving very slowly and deliberately. It seemed impossible for Hermione to extricate herself from its grasp. Slowly as it was moving, it seemed to be outrunning Draco. Draco put on a burst of speed, almost used his wand again, and then decided to run harder. The creature stopped. Draco drew closer to it. Hermione was lying on the ground and panting. The creature held out his hand, grew a blue stone out of it, and then struck her head rather clumsily with it. It was a strong enough blow to knock her out cold, and the figure began to walk away again, and there was no way for Draco to catch up, no matter how hard he tried.

.((0)).

White. White in white in white in white, clear blue sky in between. Hermione opened her eyes to a series of squares, corner-bottom so they looked like diamonds, diamonds inside diamonds, frames within frames within frames of white wood parted by blue sky. She could fall into it, and, for a moment, she did.

"Hermione," she heard someone say, in a voice like glass. Like glass singing, fingers on the rims of wine-glasses, bitten by an undercurrent of breaking glass. She opened her eyes. No more diamonds. Now it was triangles, base-up, folded over each other to they pointed up, and she followed them up. That was when she saw the person sitting by her bed. The man's skin was a dusky blue-white color, nearing gray in its shadows. His eyes were light blue, cold and slanted, his eyebrows arched impossibly high, exaggerating each of his expressions. His hair was a cloud upon his head, light, sometimes a pale shade of blue, sometimes dim gold. "I am the Blue King," he said.

She closed her eyes again. "My head hurts," she said softly. She was dreamy and uncomprehending.

"No it doesn't."

Hermione frowned. "Oh. You're right. Why is that?"

"Things change here."

Hermione breathed into her pillow and fell back asleep for a few moments. The man stayed where he was, sitting in a chair placed by the couch he'd set her in. The couch changed; the room changed, but only within the parameter of couch and room. Tables remained tables, and windows remained windows, although they wore different curtains and revealed different landscapes from moment to moment. The man and the girl didn't change.

Again she woke, and opened her eyes, and stared at the ceiling again. Now it was circles. Circles in circles in circles in circles. "Where is this?"

"You know where we are."

"I should be different by now."

"No. The boundary protects you."

Hermione looked at him for the first time. "You spoke to me before, didn't you?" she asked. "You got rid of my headache."

The man smiled. "Yes."

She watched him as his chair shifted underneath him, his limbs fluidly compensating for the change in heights. "Is the boundary protecting you?" she asked.

The man laughed. When he laughed, it sounded like a room full of mirrors shattered. "In a way, it is. But as for the stasis I maintain, it is a result of my power. I shift a little, but the change is small. Constancy is rare here. It terrifies many of us."

Hermione checked her head, only now remembering the brick that had descended into her vision before she lost consciousness. It was fine; there was no wound. She looked up at him. "Does it terrify you?"

"What is more terrible than pure stasis? Pure change is pure delight—but I am one of those who likes a bit of absence to feel a presence. And also, you succumb to dispersal if you change too much. That is why some try to maintain some form of recognizability from state to state—but again, many enjoy dispersal."

She regarded him in a fragile sort of way, as if there were a thousand things that could be broken and she dared not to. "What… what do you want?" He had not realized until now that she was frightened.

He waited for a moment, as though he was thinking over her question. "What do _you_ want? That is the proper question, or the more proper one, to be sure. "

"What do _I _want?" asked Hermione incredulously, wide-eyed. "I don't understand. How long am I going to be here? Why did you take me? That—the thing that brought me here knocked me unconscious. I don't understand—anything that's going on. Has the boundary been broken?"

The Blue King regarded her, even this expression sharpened by his features into a look of utmost penetration. "So you don't even know that you want something."

Hermione said nothing, and pressed her thumb in the depression under her lower lip, a childhood gesture that felt comfortable in her resting position on the vacillating couch. "I know I'd like Tom Riddle's ghost to be gone so I can concentrate on my research."

"And what are you researching?"

She frowned. He was asking the question in the manner of someone who already knew the answer. "What do I want?" she mused, thinking over his question. She turned her attention to the ceiling again, feeling her thoughts gather in her head and congeal. She wasn't sure it was her own will that caused this to happen. "It's not what you think. The boundary? I don't care about the boundary so much. It's the creatures from the Five Inhuman Empires—they've a right to be restored to their natural propensities."

"You are planning to do it by breaking the boundary."

"There's no other way I'm aware of. How is it you know? How do you know anything about the outside world? And you knew my name, didn't you?"

"We can leave. There are certain areas which are semi-permeable to us. Not to you."

"So the boundary isn't broken?"

"No. Not for you."

"Then how did I get in?"

His fingers were steepled together on his lap. "There are certain people in your world—people like you, like Jebediah Prow, like al-Ghazali and Kayyam and Blake, who are capable of breaking the boundary. People like you, become clear to us. We bring you here to make the choice."

"The choice? To break the boundary, you mean?"

"Yes."

"So I can choose to break the boundary? I can just decide?" She was entirely unconvinced.

He laughed his broken mirror laugh again. "It will not break on account of a choice. I will be honest with you and say I do not want the boundary broken. I do not think you will either. You are a witch, and that means you are familiar with Salazar Slytherin."

"Lately, very familiar," Hermione agreed cautiously.

"There is only one way to break the boundary. You must find a particle of Salazar Slytherin's ashes, which have been floating in the mundane air these few centuries, and bring it to the Faer Land."

Hermione shook her head. "I couldn't even begin to—wait, will he be able to resurrect himself, here, with so little of his remains?"

"Oh, yes, yes, my dear. Anything is possible, here."

"If it's possible, then it's inevitable. Salazar Slytherin is the price to pay for the minds of the Inhuman Kingdoms. He designed the spell this way."

"Oh, yes. He was very clever. If he is given another chance I don't think he will be stopped."

Hermione waited before speaking, and spoke carefully when she did. "Do you—why is it that you oppose him? Why do you want the Faer Land contained?"

"If it was as it was before I would have no protest. But, as you put it, I will not pay the price of Salazar Slytherin."

"But… why not?"

"Isn't it obvious? I am the Blue King. Even in the Faer Land, there cannot be two."

She blinked. "Oh. Is there nothing that can be done for the Inhuman Kingdoms?"

"Nothing I know of." He fixed her with a look, a stern look, a dangerous look, and asked her: "Will you do it? Will you break the boundary?"

Hermione shook her head before she even thought about it. "I don't think I could pay the price, either. There's no Rowena Ravenclaw to defeat him this time. And it's too soon after—after his heir."

"Yes," he said, looking at her as if to see if she was lying.

A silence stretched between them. Hermione didn't look at the Blue King, and he was looking at her, and she kept being drawn in the ceiling, which was in stars now, six-sided lotus flowers.

"Ask me," said the Blue King, his voice singing and breaking and violence and emptiness.

Hermione spoke as she had when she first woke, dreamily and guilelessly. "What if I did want to break the boundary?"

"It is better if you do not," he said, and Hermione looked at his eyes then. She wished, very fervently, that she had not.

"Oh—" she breathed, and all her fear returned to her at pitch. She was suddenly petrified of not being sure enough about the matter, of him being able to sense something inside her, but—

"Are you ready to return, then?" he asked, peacable again.

Hermione managed to nod.

He held out his hand, and her own drifted towards it, as if by compulsion. He kissed her hand, and she gasped. It burned, it froze, and it traveled in a horrifying gallop up her arm and into her body until she could stand it no more. She saw his face again, followed by blackness.


	13. Chapter 13

SailorHecate—thanks a bunch. I'm glad to know the penalty of resurrecting Salazar Slytherin is effective. I hadn't considered breaking the boundary at all until a few chapters in this fic, and I was trying to come up with a way that seemed reasonable, and I kept reading the Rowena chapter, and then I had a nice little eureka moment.

Adriane—ooh, you compared me to David Lynch and Dali in the same paragraph. That is super-cool. Actually, The Blue King and the whole Faer Land concept is more like the stuff I normally write, I was worried about getting a bit too weird and surreal for peoples' taste.

Sad Stephen—no problem, like I said, I am laaaaaaazy. But I did give this chap an extra readover just for you!

Rosiline—thanks a bunch. I think it will be a challenge doing more stuff in the Faer Land because it itself is all bizarre. But I will try to make it less confusing.

Scarecrow—Next chapter, I think she'll see the dragon. And she definitely will. Heh he. I joke, I joke. You'll just have to see.

Jeanne :P—My god I love long reviews, I read them over and over. They are to me as my fics are to you. You are right on about Hermione being less impetuous and whatnot with age—she crossed a lot of lines in the other story she probably wouldn't have in this. I think she's a bit more altruistic here, though, just in terms of her campaign for creature rights, which was something that was impossible for her to consider in the last fic. As for Tom, he will have more than a supporting role as the fic goes on, I believe. As for Draco, you are right to suspect him of having an agenda. It's almost definitely not what you or anyone thinks. And I'm so glad to here you're looking forward to eons ahead and adventures in the Faer Land and all, because that's exactly what the third story will be. Oh, and thank you for mentioning the magical creatures. I have to include them if I take Hermione's creature rights thing seriously. And also, there were the centaurs from the last fic, who sort of disappeared more than I meant them to. I had wanted to give Firenze more of a role in the last fic, but he can still come up here.

Blindfaithoperadiva—drugs, basically.

The Almighty Cheez It—I just love your name. Cheez Its are almighty. They should be worshipped as gods.

TheCrescentMoonWriter—I totally giggled when I saw your review, I think it was the first one I read. I just love that you take this fic seriously enough to consider Hermione's options and go—nope, that's not an option.

Miss-Fleur-Riddle—You name makes me think of a Fleur-Tom pairing. That would be odd. Perhaps in a good way? Dunno. Hope you dig this chappie.

Jkrowlingrox—I have been the writer who leaves my fic for six months before. You guys are just lucky that I'm on a roll. Let's hope it continues.

.((0)).

She is in a cave, and all that is with her is a golden figurine, which, before she can glimpse its shape, turns into a bed. It is immense. She hadn't realized the small little space had such high ceilings. There are two figures in between a set of golden curtains. One, of course, has dark hair, and his naked torso is pale, paler than the girl's skin underneath him. The girl is muttering some vague equation, a rhythmic lilt to the words, the words just out of reach. She knows before she sees the curly brown hair across the pillow, before Tom lifts his head and uncovers the face, that it is her own. Her eyes are closed and she is murmuring. Tom is looking at her, herself, his hand still drawing the other her towards him by the small of her back. He smiles wickedly. Tom turns back to the other her and covers her left breast with his mouth. She lets out a sigh, a murmur. Hermione almost does, too. There is a faint rush of feeling somewhere in the periphery of her awareness. She feels as if, if she touches it, it will be hers.

Then the other Hermione is gone, only Tom, still visible, real, solid, his arm around her waist, drawing her onto the bed. She places her hand on his arm, stops him from drawing her closer, even though she feels a compulsion towards him. She tells herself it's just the nature of his being an incubus. It doesn't mean anything, really. His arm is very warm.

"How did you?" She leaves the question incomplete. Bring me here, she means. But Tom knows that.

"I could feel you," he says. "You were cold."

"Yes," says Hermione. "I still am." She closes her eyes. "I feel like my brain has been blended."

"It's a good thing the Boundary protects you."

"So you know where I've been."

"I always know where you are."

She pauses, recalls reading something to that effect. She really ought to research incubuses, seeing as she's afflicted with one. "Where is this?" she asks, gesturing towards cave walls that block the bed off.

"A cave in the Forbidden Forest."

Hermione gives him an incredulous look. "Grawp's cave?"

Tom raised his eyebrows. "I've no idea."

"Is it on the western path?"

"Yes."

"It is his cave, then."

"Whose?"

"Grawp—Hagrid's little brother. Well, not little. He's a full giant."

"It's a good thing this space has protections on it while in this form."

"So we're really there—I mean, here?"

"Yes, we are."

"How strange." She gazes lazily at the pillow, longing for sleep. But she can't sleep, can't even slightly let her guard down with Tom. She sighs. "Why am I here, Tom?"

"What happened, past the Boundary?"

Hermione is silent, willfully so. It is some minutes, before Tom speaks again.

"I want to help you. If you've found anything, you should let me know. You never know which line of inquiry could lead us to destroy the boundary."

But she knows, now, how to break the boundary. Hermione shrugs. "I talked to the Blue King." She waits for a moment before asking, "Do you know of him?"

Tom shakes his head. Hermione is inexplicably glad he doesn't know. There are limits to his knowledge. She feels safer with them.

Hermione thinks. She can't tell him what the Blue King said. The reincarnation of Salazar Slytherin may not be a terrible price to pay, for his heir. "You told me I need you to help me break the barrier to the Faer Land. So tell me. What help can you give?"

"You have been examining specimens of the Five Inhuman Empires in your laboratory at St. Mungo's, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"You are looking for evidence of Salazar's curse, yes?"

"Yes."

"You believe it may lead you to the curse?"

"It might."

"You have to look past the brain. Brains are the seat of a wizard's magic, not a magical creature's. A unicorn's mind resides its brain, but its magic resides in its heart."

Hermione thinks about it for a moment. Unicorn hearts _were_ very strange. They were made of gold, for one. "How do you know that?"

"As I said, I've been doing a lot of reading in the Founders' Room."

"Do you know where it is for the others?"

Tom looks at her from a superior height. "And what will you do for me in return?"

"Break the Boundary," Hermione says, even though she intends on doing no such thing. Her energy now is refocused on finding some way to free the creatures of the Inhuman Empires without invoking the second part of Salazar's curse. Knowing the possible target area for the Salazar's curse might be the only way to remove the curse from the Inhuman Empires without breaking the Boundary.

Tom looks as though he's adding her features up into a sum. "Yes, I hoped you would remember your promise." Was it that? Had she promised? He sighs, and gives her a distracted look, but one full of meaning. "For the centaurs, it is their hooves. For the mermaids, their skin. For the Giants, their liver. For the dragons, their tongues."

There it is. Whether there is a way to do it, she doesn't know, but there is a new path to follow, and Tom has given it to her. He has no idea it leads past what he wants. She looks at him. She can't give him what he wants, and he won't let her go until she does. She won't be able to hide her intentions for long.

He's still solid. He is holding her hand, looking down at it. He brings his fingers up her arm, watching his hand as it trails a cold fire up her arm. It is an incubus's trick, not real. But, to her, another her, but still her—somewhere it was real. She watched the hand, the pale, long, beautiful hand, from which had come so many terrible things. Or had they? Were Voldemort's acts to Tom as Mione Potter's acts were to herself? She looked into his face as the thought unfolded itself into undeniable truth.

"Who were you?" she whispered.

He was looking at her intently, fixedly. His eyes won't let go of her. "I was… who I might have been," he said softly. "Somewhat different, much the same."

"Were you… innocent?"

Again, it is some time before he answers. His hand has somehow gotten to her ear, and the fire has turned warm. Hermione grasps his hand quickly. He stops moving it, but doesn't remove it from its cradling position. "Not of who I was," he said. "But I was innocent of what I came to do. Of what I did… to you. What we couldn't change."

Hermione looks at him, and thinks of Ron. He'd been killed. And her parents—what they couldn't change. She shakes her head and closes her eyes. Tom's face remains in her mind's eye, in his school robes, the image of what Harry had seen on that fatal night. He had helped her to save Ron. "You—_we_ meant to kill Voldemort, didn't we?"

"Yes," he says.

"Why?" she can't help asking. "How?"

His hand is buried in her hair now, and she's still clasping his wrist. "I would undo everything you have suffered. I regret everything I've done in this world." He shakes his head. "All of it."

Hermione's breath stifles. She can see it in his eyes, the truth. She can see what she had seen in another life. She can almost feel the whole of the story, and she reaches out to him, as if she can grasp the whole of it, understand it all, if only she can touch him. His other hand brushes her hand as it draws to his face, and his skin is cool to the touch. His eyes are closed, and he draws his free arm to her back. His face is undeniably beautiful, his features strong and angular, his mouth subtly curved, soft. She looks at her hand in wonder; Tom's skin is growing warm underneath it. When she looks back at him, his eyes are open. And closer. She lets herself be drawn to him, his hand drawing a line up her back, her free hand inadvertently lingering at his hip, and now their eyes are less than an inch apart, half-lidded. When she blinks, her eyelashes brush his cheek. He untangles his hand from her hair and brings his fingers across her jawbone, dragging them slowly, slowly to her chin. They drift upwards, lingering in the depression below her lip, and when they touch her lips they are like fire. She can't help it. She gasps, her lips parted, their bodies aligned, and the fingers withdraw. She stares helplessly at Tom, and he kisses her. It is unbearable. She lets him part her lips farther, outline them with the sharp tip of his tongue, and then she kisses him back. They are entangled, braided together, two currents intersecting. They are holding onto each other tightly, unmoving, only their mouths moving, as if they are communicating some urgent secret. It isn't like a dream at all.

And then, without thinking about it, Hermione pushes herself away. She is still sitting on his lap and grasping onto his shoulders, and she is panting, but she isn't looking at him. She thanks whatever higher principle guided her, which made her body move despite its desires.

"Oh God," she breathes, her breath hitching. Tom says nothing. She looks at him. "I have to go," she says. "Let me go."

His expression is unfathomable, his eyes full of some emotion, but which emotion is impossible to guess. "What if I don't?"

She manages to get a hold of her breath. "I'll hex you into next week," she manages.

He smirks. "That's my girl," he says. He cups her face in his hands, and Hermione watches his face drawing towards her, still helpless. She closes her eyes as if she can avoid him that way, and feels his lips press against her forehead—even that is unbearable.

Then there is a long obliteration of darkness.

.((0)).

When she woke, Hermione was in an entirely unfamiliar room. It was high-ceilinged, white-walled, with a narrow, slanting black pattern etched along the edges. She sat up in her overlarge bed, covered in a thick green and gold blanket. For a moment she didn't care where she was. The last strands of the dream were still hooked into her. She couldn't give Tom what he needed, and it was becoming harder to resist him. It was becoming harder to attribute the temptation to an incubus's power. There were, inside of her, desires she'd never acknowledged, a capacity to do things she'd never thought herself capable of. She closed her eyes, and managed only with a strong effort to pull herself away from her thoughts and pay some attention to where she was.

Hooked onto the bathroom door was a pale green robe. It was very early morning, judging by the light outside. When she looked out the window, she could see the moat that surrounded the house. So she was at Penbridge. However had she gotten there?

And, had Draco gotten there? She remembered him running after her, in the Faer Land. Obviously, he hadn't caught her. So what had become of him? Had he managed to find his way out? The possibility that he hadn't, made it imperative for her to find him immediately. After all, he had run after her, she might as well make sure he was still alive somewhere. She looked down at her disheveled state—she'd been sleeping in her clothes. Well, she could change into the robe, at least. After she had done that, she splashed some water onto her face and gathered her hair into a loose bun.

Although Hermione knew roughly the position of her room in Penbridge, she had no idea where Draco's room was—he'd gone to it after he showed her hers. She decided to start ground-level, since people tended situate themselves there or else on the top floor. She tried the first door she came across and was relieved to find that it had no lock on it. It was just the bathroom, followed by a series of bedrooms, each distinct in its architecture and décor, each complementing those around it. Draco's room was the door at the very end of the room. It, also, wasn't locked.

Hermione knocked on the door lightly. There was no response, so she opened it. Draco's room was enormous. There was a sitting area bounded by several couches and chairs, and on either side of the room, doors. Hermione tried one and discovered a private bathroom. She tried the other one. This one proved to be Draco's bedroom.

Hermione was relieved to find Draco in his bed. He was, as she had been, in his clothes. His blanket was half-thrown off and the sheets bore the marks of a restless sleep. He was turned on his side, and stirred slightly. Hermione turned to go, satisfied that he hadn't been trapped in the Faer Land.

From behind her, she heard him groan. When she turned back she realized he looked rather pale—for him, as he was already rather pale. Hermione hesitated for a moment before she drew a bit closer. His eyes seemed bruised, his lips pale, and his breath wasn't coming normally. When Hermione grasped his wrist in order to check his pulse, his skin was unnaturally cold and clammy. The pulse was faint.

Hermione cast a warming charm on him. His skin grew somewhat warmer but his pulse was still faint. She shook him gently, prompting another groan. She tried again, and his eyes fluttered open briefly, and then closed again, unfocused.

"Draco," she said, shaking him again. She cast another warming charm. What was the matter with him? Why hadn't she woken up in this state? His skin was warmer, but he still wasn't waking up. She recalled her dream again—she _had_ been cold, at first, there in the golden room, in the cave. She remembered the icy sensation that had traveled through her body when the Blue King had sent her back. It must be the same thing here. Only Draco had no incubus to warm him.

Hermione sat on his bed, parted his shirt and placed a hand on his still-cool chest. She directed another warming spell at him, aimed directly at his heart. This recovered his pulse, for the most part. Hermione tried to rouse him again, this time successfully. His eyes opened, and he looked at her blearily.

"Cold," he whispered.

"I know," said Hermione, and directed another warming spell at him. "Seems it's harder to get out of the Faer Land than in.

"Ugh. Better," he acknowledged.

"Maybe you should take a hot bath," she suggested.

Draco closed his eyes again. "Nice."

Hermione sighed. "I'll go run one for you," she said, deciding to give him a bit more time to recover. She went into the bathroom—the bathtub inside was much like the prefect's tub, with a dozen nozzles. Hermione experimented with them for a bit until a hot stream of lavender water was streaming out. Hermione returned to Draco's room. He was still on his back, his hand thrown across his forehead. "Come on then," she said, tugging on his arm. He allowed himself to be dragged up to a sitting position, and collapsed against her.

"Warm," he muttered, head on her shoulder. To Hermione's horror, he wrapped his arms around her and snuggled against her as if she was an oversized teddy bear. Clearly the cold had driven him out of his mind.

Hermione let out a great sigh and tugged Draco to a half-standing, half leaning position and struggled to guide him through his common area to the bathroom. He moved a bit more of his own volition as they went, but was clearly weak, groggy, and none too sharp. Hermione looked at the half-filled tub, then at Draco. "There is no way I'm undressing you," she muttered, and tried as gently as possible to lower him into the warm water. It didn't turn out to be very gentle, but as soon as Draco fell into the tub he sighed with relief, stretched his legs out, and submerged himself as much as possible. Hermione sat on the edge of the tub near him.

He laid there in a rather stunned way for a few moments, staring blankly in front of him. Then, suddenly, he thrashed and seemed to emerge to a proper kind of consciousness. He turned around to Hermione, his hair plastered across his face. "What the—sodding hell happened? There was—you were—Was it a dream or did we go to the Faer Land again?"

"We did."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Did you get—how did you get back? How did I get back?"

Hermione leaned against the wall of the bathtub. "The Blue King."

"What?"

"I guess he's king of the Faer Land."

"That slimy thing was the king of the Faer Land?" Draco asked in disgust.

"No. That slimy thing took me to him."

"Oh. Was he—slimy?"

Hermione smiled a bit. All the way back to normal, then. "No. But he was scary, and I don't think either of us will be going back there again."

Draco's expression was not what she expected it to be. Relief was there, but only in half-measure. There was also something like disappointment.

"Did you want to go back?"

He laughed weakly in response to that. "It terrifies me, that place."

"I'd gathered."

He leaned back into the water. "I feel like my brain's been scrambled."

"You too?"

He didn't answer her. "The Blue King. That should sound strange to me. It should be strange we were there again. And there was no dragon."

Hermione looked at him. His eyes were closed. He looked perfectly at home lying in his bathtub fully clothed. "Well, we weren't really here for the dragon, were we?"

He looked at her when she said this. It was a shrewd look that reminded her that Draco knew quite a lot more about the things going on than she ever would have given him credit for knowing. "What do you mean by that?"

"What are you afraid I mean?"

Draco closed his eyes again. "I don't know. Why don't you just tell me what you actually mean?"

"It's kind of strange that despite your obvious fear of the Faer Land, you've been there twice and came with me this time."

"Well, I'm a political creature."

"How can that possibly explain things?"

"Easily. I don't know if you'd noticed, but there's a bit of a power vacuum right now. Maybe you wouldn't know since you grew up with Muggle politics, but the magical world is never without a central, or at least authoritative power. Whether it's a dark wizard, an uprising, or an ambitious Minister, some event is always cohering the Magical world. This business with you and Voldemort and the Faer Land has the smell of the next thing to come, you see. I want to make sure I have a piece of it."

Hermione folded her arms. "I don't know if there will be a piece of it for you to have, Malfoy. The way it looks right now, the Faer Land is as inaccessible as it ever was. Of course, if you'd like to help me restore the magical creatures' natural abilities, I'd be glad to take your money."

Draco looked up at her. "Why do you say the Faer Land is inaccessible?"

"The Blue King said so," said Hermione simply. "I won't be the one to cross him."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Hermione snorted. "Planning on going after him?"

"I just want to know what's going on."

"Why?"

"You never know when the information would come in handy."

Hermione was no more likely to tell Draco the contents of her conversation with the Blue King than she was to tell Tom. "He told me not to break the boundary, is all."

"How did we get to the Faer Land if the boundary wasn't already broken?"

"It wasn't exactly broken. It protected us, which is why we didn't change."

"That makes no sense."

"He let me in because he said I could break the boundary. He doesn't want it broken. He was warning me."

"Did he say what would happen?"

Hermione laughed. "No."

Draco sat up at gave her a penetrating look. "Yes he did."

Hermione glared at him. "Didn't," she lied. Let him know she was lying, she still wouldn't admit to it.

Draco merely grunted in response and folded his arms around his knees. Hermione stood—after all, she was satisfied he was well. "I suppose you want to see the Pensieve?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," said Hermione. She sighed, considering her dream. He was an incubus, and she loved Ron, she told herself sternly. "Later," she added after a few moments.

"Not up to it?" asked Draco, giving himself an arm up out of the bathtub.

"Not right now," she admitted. Draco stood up and ran a hand through his wet hair. "You're dripping on me."

"Well, pardon me," he said. He looked out of his bathroom window. "Must be morning."

"Must be," Hermione agreed, standing herself. "I'll go so you can have a proper bath."

Draco looked down at himself as if he hadn't realized until now that he was fully dressed and soaking. "I'll meet you at the dining hall so we can get some breakfast," he said.

Hermione nodded vaguely and departed, trying not to think about the sorts of things she might see herself do in Alicia Silversmith's Penseive.

.((0)).

She didn't bring up the subject of the Penseive until late in the afternoon. Then, reluctantly, she followed Draco into a sitting room and watched as he unlocked a cabinet and brought it out. It was the most intricately made Pensieve she had seen—surely it was goblin-made, white gold inlaid with pink daimonds. Draco was watching her. She gave him a wary look, set her shoulders, and walked over to the Pensieve.

There was an illusory shifting feeling, and Hermione found herself in the Hogwart's library. A boy's face was in front of her, black-haired, blue-eyed. He was attractive in a nearly effeminate way. Hermione didn't know who he was. She didn't know he was dead. She didn't know he was Allistaire's grandfather.

"But the test isn't for weeks, Alicia," the boy said. She turned, and saw a pale-haired head bent over a large volume.

"Then go find someone to flirt with, Adrian, because I intend to study." She watched as they spoke, Alicia's eyes seldom leaving the book. When they did, it was with an amused affection. Adrian asked her to find out about Mione Potter for Tom Riddle. She stiffened as she heard those names, and turned away from them. She walked along the shelves as Alicia expressed the opinion that Tom Riddle fancied Mione.

And then she saw herself. Hermione stopped. Her 18-year old self was kneeling among the bookshelves with a set of the twins' extendable ears, listening to the conversation.

"Mione," she whispered, but before she could say anything, her surroundings disappeared.

Then she was in the library again, and there was Mione Potter, sitting across from Alicia Silversmith. This time Hermione got a better look at Alicia, comparing her to her brief encounter in her own time, and a sighting at the summit. She was really a breathtakingly beautiful girl, her strange paleness making it all the more striking. She, herself—Mione—was talking.

"Another pneumatic induction step, applied to every nth sigil, will finish off the equation," she was saying.

"I can see why Tom like you," said Alicia.

"What?"

"No one would dare say it, but it seems obvious enough to me."

Here eyes were wide and her cheeks showed a tell-tale pink. "No—that's not it. It's just that he's an overly curious boy who's decided he had things to find out about me."

"And why would he decide that, if there was nothing to recommend it?"

"How should I know?" Mione sighed. "Anyway, you know more about it than I do, and you seem thick with those Slytherin boys. Whatever it is you're all playing at, I don't care to be involved."

"You can believe it or not. Tom is famous for being as inaccessible as he is. He's taken no girl, and he's certainly handsome enough to have a wide choice in it. It says something about you, that he's only ever shown an interest in you."

Mione was blushing in earnest now. Hermione shook her head as this scene disappeared, and was replaced with a different one.

The library, again. Alicia was walking among the aisles of books, paying no attention to them at all. She was walking through it, her figure tall and slim. Hermione followed her. She stopped at a corner, and when Hermione moved closer she saw a smirk on her face. She looked over to the corner Alicia was watching.

"Merlin," Hermione whispered as she saw her other self, and Tom, not in the dream of an incubus, but in reality. They were speaking to each other intently, his head bent down and close to hers, in every manner like lovers. She watched as they drew even closer together, shaking her head as they kissed. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them, they were in the library—again. Well, there couldn't be any doubt that this was her, what with the never-ending setting of the Hogwart's Library. She and Alicia were seated together again. Why did Alicia hate her so much, if they had been friends?

"What is it between you and Tom Riddle, Mione?"

She was different, Mione Potter, this other self. Her entire attitude now was different. Cold, neutral, political. "I don't know what you mean," she said, with a coolness that an adult Hermione was incapable of.

"It seems rather epic, you know, you and him."

This was different, too. Was this where the rift began? "I meant I don't know what you mean by asking me such an inappropriate question." There was a steely warning tone to Mione's voice.

"Would you classify your behavior as inappropriate?"

She watched herself argue with Alicia, and noticed Tom's appearance before either she or Alicia did. She watched her other self promptly act to help Tom, to march Alicia out of the library to where Tom had hidden her friends. She realized Alicia had been trying to set Tom up—it seemed as if she had been trying to expose him to Mione. Had she been the good one?

Hermione followed them into the forest, listened to Mione suggest she and Tom obliviate the group. She watched herself cast the spell on boys tied to their chairs, utterly helpless. What on earth had she turned into? Before she had any kind of an answer, the scenery shifted again.

She wasn't sure where she was this time. A white-walled room lined with instruments, nothing like she'd seen at Hogwarts. Mione was leaning over an apparatus. "Hmm, that's odd. Everything is as it should be. Why won't it work?"

"Because my requirement was a room in which only purebloods can do magic."

So it was the Room of Requirement. This was the first intimation Hermione had that she had passed herself off as pureblooded—of course, she was a Potter, it was obvious. And being a muggleborn would have been risky in Grindelwald's time.

Hermione watched as the girl and her companions extracted the truth out of her with Veritaserum. So Ron _had_ been killed. No wonder she went back in time. She listened to herself as she told Alicia of her and Tom's plan. They would create another Tom and take a version of him to the future, where they would kill Voldemort. She listened to herself admit that everyone in the room but Alicia was destined for death, and that she had acted to seal those fates.

"He's innocent. Now. He can be saved."

Well, couldn't _they_ have been saved? She listened to her own cold estimation of the group, her own condemnation. And they had died. All of the people she was watching now were dead, and they would have been able to prevent it, but for her.

She watched Tom come into the room, shoot one of the boys, watched the door open to France, watched as Tom's immortality presented itself. She watched herself fighting with Tom. Fighting against Grindelwald. She watched as she managed to block a spell—from Grindelwald! And then it was just Tom and Grindelwald.

This was how Hermione discovered the answer to the mystery of Grindelwald's downfall—Tom Riddle had killed him in his last year of Hogwarts.

But that was no revelation compared to her discovery of who she had been. Mione Potter, going around taking people's memories from them and glibly deciding their fates, while at the same time risking everything to save Tom Riddle from himself.

The scenery changed again. They were in a high-ceilinged room that verged into a long corridor at one of its corners. Mione Potter was not in this scene. The black-haired boy from before was with Alicia again—Hermione had figured out by now that it was Adrian Avery. He was an adult now, which had transitioned the effeminate prettiness of his face into handsomeness. They were both seated before the Penseive.

"What will we do?" he whispered, looking at it.

"Leave," said Alicia calmly.

He looked at her. "Alicia, you remember what Mione Potter said. No one will survive but you." He shook his head. "Tom Riddle—who would believe it was him? Lord Voldemort doesn't look anything like him."

"Do you remember what else she said? She thought she could change time. If she can, why can't we?"

He contemplated the Pensieve again.

The scenery changed again, one last time. It was dark, and it took Hermione's eyes a moment to adjust. There was a soft, rhythmic sound coming from a corner. Hermione turned, and saw a long stream of white hair. Alicia was crouched against a wall, sobbing softly. It took Hermione a few moments to realize she was crouching by a body. She walked closer, knowing that it was Adrian Avery. Her heart clenched. And she had told him he deserved it. Above him, written on the wall in his own blood, was a message to Alicia.

"Save yourself," it read.

Alicia's sobs took the form of words. "Why?" she was asking in a keening whisper. "Why did you even bother to return it to me?" It was meant for her, that question, another her. But it was unsettling. As if Alicia knew she was there.

And with that, Alicia's memories vanished, and she was back at Penbridge with Draco. Hermione withdrew from the Pensieve. She drew in a long, shuddering breath. She turned; Draco was sitting in an armchair, tapping his wand on his knee. She wished he wasn't here.

"Well?" he drawled.

Hermione drew in another breath, and blinked. She turned back to the Pensieve, and shook her head. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, but that didn't stop her eyes from forming tears. Draco was standing; she could see his tear-blurred figure in the periphery of her vision. Now he was standing in front of her. She looked away.

"Funny, I thought you wouldn't be sorry. You certainly didn't seem it when you were being interrogated."

"Just—don't," she managed, before a sob escaped her. She covered her mouth with her hand. There was a warm pressure on her shoulder—Draco's hand. She let him draw her towards him into a hug that wasn't nearly as awkward as she would have expected. That made her cry harder, and she clung to his shirt with her hand, emptying all her uncommitted sins into his chest. "I'm—sorry," she managed with a gasping sob.

"Good," said Draco, stroking her hair. Hermione managed to calm down a bit. "My father grew up with it—my grandfather died before he entered Hogwarts, and was a pawn of Voldemort's from that day on. I hear people talk all the time about my father, but he didn't have a choice, and the things he did—he did them for me. Me and my mother" Draco's voice was passionate and bitter. "He did the best he could so my mother would be safe, and when Voldemort was resurrected he did everything he could to keep me out of it. But he never had any choice, he never _joined._ He would have died—but I guess I have the other you to thank for that."

Hermione drew away. "That's something, at least," she said softly.

"It means something to me," said Draco.


	14. Chapter 14

Next chapter

Hey guys, a little short this week, just D/Hr fluffy fighting.

Jeanne: Yeah, you're right. Hermione is a bit more of an outsider. Mione got to live, for a while, insulated from the whole anti-mudblood sentiment, and I think finding out she was descended from Rowena made a much bigger difference to her than it did for Hermione—but I think that's because Hermione has dealt with the issue for the most part and kind of proud of her differences. I also am planning to work Firenze in more. Oh, yeah, and no fairies per se. I dunno, I just don't like fairies. It's the name. It kills all the potential coolness.

SailorHecate—thanks a bunch, more Tom to come, though unfortunately not here.

Jkrowlingrox—Yeah, I'm drawing her in two directions, in case you can't tell, and it's fun. In real life people get attracted by various people, why not fic land?

Scarecrow—Hermione and Alicia will indeed meet, but not for tea.

Rosiline—thanks.

The Crescent Moon Writer—Maybe you won't have to pick.

Miss Fleur Riddle—thanks again for reviewing

Sad Stephen—Yeah, incubuses are hot. That's pretty much their whole point.

Blindfaithoperadiva—Also, she knows a bit more than Mione ever did, she sees the consequences of her actions much more clearly than Mione did, and she's very blind to the context they occurred in, so.. she's not really happy about it, for sure.

Draco and Hermione took another turn around Mabon before they returned to Malfoy Manor. They made a half-hearted second hike, even to the point of finding the path. Both of them knew they wouldn't enter the Faer Land again, and Hermione grew more nervous the nearer they came to it. She was still curious—she still wanted to see the dragon. However, she knew the boundary had closed—even if it was possible to breach it, she couldn't face the consequences. Not Salazar Slytherin and not what the terrifying stare of the Blue King promised her. Still, the dragon had come to Allistaire.

"Do you think it was a warning?" asked Draco as they left the site of the Faer Land's path.

"Hmm?" asked Hermione

"The dragon. Do you think it was warning Allistaire?"

"Of course it was. He said it did."

"Does that mean Allistaire can break the boundary? Can I?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know, and I don't think you should."

"Why?"

"It's not worth it."

"Didn't you want to find some way to make dragons talk or something equally ludicrous?"

"They used to be able to. If you had read Rowena Ravenclaw's journal, you would have known that."

"Well, how will you be able to, if you can't find Allistaire's dragon?"

"There are other avenues," she replied.

It did seem more and more as though Draco had some interest in the Faer Land, and it made her nervous. His attitude was that of someone afraid of heights about to get on a plane. There was fear, but also willfulness.

He decided to take her along a path that led to a pond he said he had fished in. Hermione wondered what wizard fishing could possibly look like. She had gone on several fishing trips with her father as a child, which she hadn't remembered for a long time—they had stopped when she went to Hogwarts.

They walked down a path covered in long-brown pine needles. The space between trees indicated a clearing up ahead, and as they ascended a hill, they could see down into the pond. It was small and clear and blue. There was a red boat sitting in the middle of it.

Draco walked ahead of her. Hermione stopped and pressed her hand against a tree as she watched him approach the pond. She closed her eyes. Nothing was over, whatever she decided not to do. Something huge was going to happen. She could almost see it. Then she shook her head.

"Does it have a name?" she called out lightly to Draco. "Like L'Eau de Bleu McPretentious Where I Summer? Or am I allowed to call it a pond?"

"It's Hammit Pond," said Draco.

"Ah," said Hermione, looking around, trying not to think of the Boundary or Tom or this presentiment of great change. "Do you summer on it?"

"What does that even mean?"

"Dunno. I'm not the one who uses seasons as verbs."

"Are you trying to annoy me?"

"Yes," said Hermione truthfully.

"You know what I think?"

"What's that?"

"I think you know more than you're letting on."

"Well, you also think muggleborns should be exterminated, so I'll take that with a grain of salt."

"I don't think muggleborns should be exterminated."

"Why were you a Death Eater, then?"

Draco's eyes flashed dangerously as he turned to her. "Don't you know that well enough by now?"

"Right," she said softly. "So what is it you really think? Are your opinions somewhere in between the Death Eater propaganda and your natural prejudices? Do tell, I care so much about what you think of me."

Draco glared at her. "If you want to know, I think you're unbearable."

Hermione smiled. "Because I'm smarter than I should be?"

"That's certainly a big part of it." Draco expelled a breath. "Merlin, I am so tired of talking about this muggle nonsense. What is it you're trying to prove, anyway?"

"I don't care," she said heatedly. "I'm tired of it too, but I don't get to turn it on and off like you do."

"Well, you didn't exactly make it easy on yourself. You had to go to a muggle University and go around squawking about creature rights."

"What are you afraid of? Bad enough to be outdone by a muggleborn, even worse when it's a centaur?"

"Unbelievable," Draco snorted.

"Oh, you're so easy."

"I. Am. Not. Easy."

"Wow. You. Are. Testy."

"Granger," Draco said warningly. "Don't you imitate me."

Hermione hesitated for the smallest of moments. She couldn't help herself. "Don't you im—"

Draco launched himself at her and cut her off in mid-sentence. He made an attempt to grab her arms, and she automatically grabbed his arms back and pivoted. This and his intention to push her into the bushes combined to gather enough force to launch them both through the bushes and down the short slope into the pond. Draco landed first, and Hermione on top of him, so he got the worst effects of toppling into a pond. Hermione managed not to submerge herself completely, but Draco didn't. He came up fast, hair slicked back by the water.

Hermione started to laugh uncontrollably. "That really didn't go as you planned, did it?" She pushed herself up more or less successfully and brushed her wet hair out of her face. "Wow, my hair's going to be a disaster now."

"Well, it looks good wet, I'll give you that. Or, better than usual."

"I think that was a whole quarter compliment. You're making progress."

"Your shirt looks especially good."

"Thank—oh." Hermione quickly used her arms to cover the blue bra clearly visible through her soaking and unfortunately white shirt. This made her unable to gain enough purchase to lever herself all the way back up, and she had to give up one of her arms to the cause of standing up again, which was accomplished soon enough.

Draco was up soon after, and taking full advantage of his height. He quirked an eyebrow as he looked down at her. "Very nice, Granger. Does that count as a whole compliment?"

Hermione couldn't think of anything to say. Her cheeks were burning and her mind was racing through things to say, and she started to open her mouth but then realized she might as well make use of her wand. She cast a drying charm on herself and was restored to propriety. This took care of her blushing, and Draco was still wet, which made her feel better. He was walking up the shore to the land, hand going for his wand.

She had been with Ron too long, she thought, as she pointed her wand discretely towards Draco and muttered "Impedimenta." Draco stopped suddenly and nearly fell over.

"Granger!" he shouted.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" she said, smiling, and watched Draco soar into the air, shouting. "Finite Incantatem." Draco fell with a satisfying plop into the pond.

Draco resurfaced, thrashing. "Accio Hermione Granger!" she heard him say.

"Oh f—" she barely manage to hold onto her wand as she went speeding towards Draco Malfoy and the pond. This time she didn't manage to keep herself from going all the way in. She struggled back to the surface, wand in hand. She broke the surface, and Draco Malfoy and his wand were waiting for her.

"Don't you dare," he said somewhat breathily as he treaded water. Hermione kept her wand where it was. He watched her warily as he began to tread backwards towards the shore.

Hermione kicked off her shoes underwater, shrunk them at wandpoint, and put them in her pockets for safekeeping. Then she made an earnest go of swimming, moving past Draco easily. "Not a great swimmer, are you?" she offered as she passed him, amused at his inefficient flapping.

"Yeah, well, I normally don't get thrown into ponds."

"Well, you started it." Hermione could actually feel his glare in the back of her head.

"Actually, that's true," he grudgingly admitted a few minutes later. He was pretty far behind her now, and she had reached a spot where she could feel the ground. "Doesn't mean this is over." Hermione barely heard him. She half-swam, half walked to shore, intent on getting dry before Draco had a chance to see through her shirt again.

Hermione wasn't prepared for the spell to hit her. She went up, foot first, and dangled helplessly for a moment before coming to her senses. Her wand was gone. She had dropped her wand like a complete idiot. She looked down at the upside down world and saw Draco Malfoy watching her gleefully—he was nearly to shore now. Quickly, she crossed her arms in front of her chest again. After a few moments she began to feel lightheaded. "Let me down!"

"No way, this is too great."

"Malfoy, I'll kill you."

Draco pointed his wand at himself and was dry a moment later. "Wish I could help you." He stooped and picked up her wand. He examined it for a moment. "I've got to hand it to you, Hermione, you're excellent in these kinds of situations."

Hermione rolled her eyes. When she got her wand back, he would pay. She glared at Draco, upside down, as he looked up at her, laughing. "Fine. I give up. You win."

Draco grinned malevolently at her. "No white flags in a Slytherin war."

Hermione sighed, which came out strange while upside down. "I am not in Slytherin." She began to struggle, swinging her body as if she could physically break the spell, he legs flailing. Draco was laughing hysterically, the complete bastard. She gave into a final burst of frenzied struggling, useless as it was, when suddenly the invisible hook let go of her and she came crashing to the ground. Grabbing her wand immediately, she glared crossly up at Malfoy.

"This can end now," he told her smugly. "If you admit your loss."

"I already did, you complete and utter prat."

"Well. Tell me I'm a god among men."

"You're a god among men. I worship at your altar. Accio Draco's wand." She caught the stick and stood, pointing her wand at Draco. She muttered a silent spell. Draco looked somewhat confused for a moment, and then looked down. He screamed. He was naked. Hermione gave him one final, unashamed glare, which he was desperately trying to deflect by use of his hands. "You deserve it," she said, and walked with as much dignity as she could muster down the path towards Draco's cottage. It wasn't until she remembered to dry herself off with a spell.


	15. Chapter 15

Heya—sorry, Tom fans, he is not here in the chapter. He will come soon. He will play a vitally important role pretty soon, don't doubt. Draco fans will be happy, however. I don't have time to answer all of your reviews personally—my battery's running out and my converter burnt out. But thank you guys so much for reviewing my fluffy bunny little chapter. This one is nice and long. Jeanne:P, Sailor Hecate, Crescent Moon Writer, The Almighty Cheez-It, Scarecrow, Sad Stephen jkrowlingrox, Rosiline, punkdpanda56, Miss-Fleur-Riddle, blindfaithoperadiva—all my friends, and doubles, whose mistakes cannot be duplicated by machines, and this is all of our arrogance. (If anyone can guess where that's from you win the prize of my eternal gratification).

.((0)).

When Hermione returned to her flat on Monday morning Ron was waiting for her. She knew the instant she saw him something was wrong. He did not look happy, not happy at all. He'd never been able to hide his moods. His mouth was set into a surly line, jaw thrust out, arms folded, stony glare. Why couldn't something go right, for once?

"What's wrong?" she asked despairingly.

Ron sighed. Hermione sat in the armchair across from him. He looked at her, then angrily away. "Where were you this weekend?" he asked.

Hermione frowned. "Mabon. I told you that."

"You didn't tell me who you were going with."

"Oh." She looked at her lap. "Who told you?"

"Padma. She was at the Channons match over the weekend."

"But Ron, obviously you can see why—"

"No, I can't see why," he retorted. "I can't see why you'd want to have a sleepover party with Draco Malfoy at all."

"A sleepover party?" asked Hermione angrily. "What are you implying?"

Ron put his hand up. "Yeah, spare me the false indignation, Hermione. Padma didn't say anything out of line. She thought it was funny how you and Draco spent the entirety of your time together bickering. She thought the idea of you two spending your time in Mabon fighting was hilarious."

"That's all we did do, Ron. I mean, I did manage to find the dragon, but we just… fought. I didn't want to be there, but Malfoy was useful. Well, he knew where the path was. Otherwise he was a pain in the arse."

"Yeah," said Ron heavily. "Just like I use to be."

Hermione stared at him. It was… she could see how Ron could interpret it like that, and she was immediately embarrassed about it, but—absolutely not. She could never, would never—it was absurd, he was a prat. "Are you jealous of—Malfoy?"

"I am not jealous!" Ron said furiously, his voice rising with each word.

"Ron—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"I—I—Well, obviously, because you wouldn't have let me go."

"And what's so bad about that?"

"Draco knew where the path was, I wouldn't have found it without him."

Ron stared at her for a long moment. "Draco?"

"Ron, stop it. I don't—"

"Yeah, well he does."

Hermione stopped. "He—what? Does what?"

"Does want to shag you."

Hermione dropped her jaw in indignant shock. "Ron!"

"You can't see it because you're a girl and you're—you. But I'm a guy, and trust me, if he's been in your Lab as much as Padma says, and has gotten you to stay over his house in Mabon, then I think you're blind not to see it."

She did see it. Only there were a number of different explanations for it. He hated Ron, he had some perverted revenge fantasy, it could do equal damage to Harry. Hermione shuddered. "He's an evil little bugger, there's any number of reasons he's being so... provocative." She shuddered. "Much as I'd like to take a shower to wash these sentiments from my skin, I'm afraid I've got to work."

.((0)).

Hermione did what she always did when she was especially upset with Ron, and went to the Impcap Wing to go to work. She was angry, she was depressed, and she felt horribly, horribly guilty, and she tried to focus all those energies into her research plan.

Well, obviously the first thing to do was to examine the various parts of the magical creatures that were connected with their natural capacities—as well as the link between those parts and their brains. What if, after all, N.E.R.D. had missed a vital clue to the makeup of magical creatures? What if the connection between a magical creature's brain and heart, or brain and hoof, for instance, meant that they were capable of far more than was previously suspected?

Only, they hadn't exhibited such capacities, so she and Padma and Terry had no reason to examine them. And the reason they hadn't exhibited those capacities was because Salazar Slytherin's last spell had destroyed them. Now, if they were to examine these areas, this link, she might be able to restore their capacities—speech, thought, writing, and agency.

Thank Merlin she had the brain that she did, because Ron and Draco and Tom were utterly lost to the cyclone of her thoughts. She stormed into St. Mungo's, blinkered completely by the will to intellectualize her way out of the problem by brute force. She didn't even order coffee, which was practically a sacrilege.

She started on Chomper. She took a holographic map of his heart, did a number of veterinary tests on his entire circulation system, and began to do a scan for magical activity. Chomper lived up to his name by eating her clipboard halfway through the examination. No matter—it was becoming clearer and clearer that there was something distinctly un-heartlike about Chomper's heart.

She was trying to undo the damage Chomper had done to her clipboard when an envelope flapped into the office and announced that Firenze was there to see her. Hermione frowned for a long moment, wondering how that was even possible, and then remembered that St. Mungo's, the Ministry, and Hogwarts were all spelled together for the express purpose of allowing centaurs access the medical centers and the governmental offices of magicians. She gave permission for him to come in and decided to break away from her investigation for long enough to get a cup of coffee. She tried to remember if centaurs liked tea or warm beverages in general. She only remembered them from Magical Creatures classes and, infamously, fifth year. It occurred to her to wonder why the centaurs didn't remember her if she had interacted with them.

Firenze appeared in the door just as she completed this thought, and she had to refrain from asking him outright. She wondered why she hadn't heard him coming down the hall and realized that his hooves were covered with some sort of cloth—it only covered the lower part of his hooves, a brown band against the black. He came into the lab without pausing at the entrance.

"Mione."

Hermione just managed to keep herself from telling him curtly not to call her that, but her expression betrayed her sentiment just the same.

"I'm sorry, would you prefer Hermione?"

"Infinitely," she managed, still unsettled by that use of her name. She wondered if she would ever be able to stand Ron calling her by that nickname again. "Sorry, Firenze, have a—" she managed to stop herself before she said seat, and replaced it nicely with "--drink." She smiled weakly. "Do you like tea?"

"I prefer coffee," he said smoothly.

"Oh," said Hermione gratefully. "Me, too." She poured out a cup and looked over her shoulder. "How do you like it?"

"Black," he replied, and she handed him the cup.

Hermione looked again at his hooves and gestured at him. "What exactly are those?"

"My hooves are rather noisy on human-made floors. I prefer not to attract attention."

"I see," she said, taking a seat.

Firenze took Ravenclaw's book from his shoulder bag and gave it to her. "I have read it."

Hermione took the book from his hands and turned it over, contemplating it. "So now you know why your people—why they have difficulty traveling."

"Yes. We have always known that Slytherin was responsible for our condition, but the particulars of his responsibility have been so far unknown."

She looked at him in some discomfort. "I'm sorry… for Ravenclaw's actions."

Firenze regarded her in some confusion. "Why would you apologize? I don't hold you responsible for the actions of all wizards. I have never had my people's prejudices… In fact, I believe it is because of you that I don't. The first time I ever saw magic, it was you performing it, in order to help my people."

Hermione pondered this for a moment. "I'm descended from her," she said, in response to his question.

"Really?"

"I believe so. I guess it doesn't matter, it's so far back. But… do you mind if I ask you something, Firenze?"

"Of course not."

"Harry and I encountered the centaurs in our fifth year. From what you've said, it seems like I was known to most of the tribe, but… In fifth year, no one recognized me."

"Ah," said Firenze, unperturbed by this seeming inconsistency. "There is still much you do not know. After my people tried to kill you, after Tom Riddle brought you back to life, he went to the village and erased their memories of you."

"What?"

"It was to protect you."

Hermione sniffed. "Oh, well that's all right, then." She stared angrily at her hands for a moment. "And I suppose I just forgave him?"

"I did," said Firenze.

She looked at him. "Why do you remember me, then?"

"I suppose because I tried to warn you. He knew I meant you no harm."

Hermione stood up suddenly and began to pace. "Merlin, I can't believe—I just keep on finding out all of these things, and I'm not happy with anything. I can't believe I—I can't believe all the things I did."

Firenze was silent for a moment, looking at her. "Light is not undivided from darkness, Hermione, and sometimes darkness is the source of light. It is true that some of us make no concessions, but those who do that are merely children who refuse to face difficult choices."

"Not Harry," said Hermione softly.

"You paint in broad strokes, but you are right—he is good. So were you, Hermione. My earliest idea of goodness came from you."

"How can you say that?"

"When my people tried to kill you—and they almost did—Tom Riddle wanted to kill them. Don't look like that, Hermione. Anyone in my tribe would have answered death with death. Most humans are the same. But not you—you told him not to. You were on the brink of death and used the last of your power to keep him from killing your would-be murderers. You were good."

Hermione sighed. "Yes, well, apparently I was also in love with the person who tried to murder your tribe."

"Are you so determined to judge yourself? A heart can't help what it loves, nor can one control their first impulses. Tom restrained himself. And your love changed him."

Hermione was silent for a long moment. "Maybe he is different," she practically whispered.

Chomper whinnied from his corner of the wing. Firenze looked over to him. "A unicorn?" he asked.

"Yes. There will be a mermaid along later in the afternoon. Giants and dragons are a bit problematic."

"I see you are determined to undo Salazar Slytherin's work."

Hermione nodded. Then she remembered herself, and said: "Does this mean you've decided to help me?"

"Yes," he replied.

She managed a smile. "Thank you."

"Can you tell me how you plan on going about it?"

"Well, at first I was just examining the brain—since I am a neuromagicologist. And also—well, you know the story. The boundary. If it could be broken, it stands to reason that the curse on you would be broken—but that isn't a promising avenue at all, I'm afraid. But I've recently discovered that for at least the magical creatures of the Inhuman Empires, their character comes from a combination of their brains and some other feature—which means I'll need Padma's help, she's the mediwizardry expert."

Firenze ducked his head. "How very interesting." He idly drummed his long fingers on a flank. "Do you know how we travel? The only way we can get to another forest?"

"No," said Hermione, in an expectant way.

"We inhale a mixture of incense. Combined with a powder made from out hooves. One's hooves are considered a contribution to their tribe upon their death."

Hermione stared intently into the upper left-hand corner of the room for a long moment. "Wow," she breathed. "We're on the right track."

"I'm glad you think so," she said.

Another envelope fluttered into the room just then, announcing Luna Lovegood. Hermione permitted her entry and idly charmed her empty coffee cup clean. She noticed, as she did so, a boyish twinkle in Firenze's eyes as she did so.

She smiled at him. "Most centaurs hate displays of magic."

"You once allowed me to try your wand. I wasn't disappointed that I was unable to do magic until you left."

"You must have been a foal, back then."

Firenze nodded, his eyes disconnected in the way of people reliving their memories.

Luna entered the office breathlessly and brightly—she was adorned in a canary yellow set of robes that matched her hair in a disconcerting manner.

"Special occasion?" asked Hermione drily.

"What? Oh, no. My father got these for me on my birthday, and it's _his_ birthday today, so… Anyway, I've been reading this—" she held out the copy of Rowena's diary and waved it. "Anyway, I've got it. I'm sure the only way to restore the powers to the Inhuman Empires is to break the boundary."

Hermione sighed. "Have a seat, Luna," she said wearily.

"Hello, Miss Lovegood," said Firenze politely.

"Oh—Firenze! How lovely that you're here. It makes perfect sense."

"I'm glad you think so."

"Well, I've been running through all the possibilities—puissant knives, permeability potions—well, obviously the problem is we don't know the spell Slytherin used at all," she continued, only to be interrupted by Firenze.

"I'm afraid," he said, "that Hermione has said breaking the boundary isn't a promising avenue."

"Really?" she said, her eyes wider than usual in surprise.

"Erm, well, the thing is, what I'm concentrating on now is, um, restoring a proper connection between—well, you see…" Hermione rallied her thoughts. "A magical creature's ability comes from the connection between their brain and a bodily part—in the case of centaurs, their hooves, for unicorns, their hearts—for example. And it seems that there is something imperfect in those connections—at least for Chomper—"

"Chomper?" asked Firenze.

"The unicorn," Hermione explained. "His heart _is_ different, and there is a connection between it and his brain, but the connection is tenuous—"

"Of course, connection and division," said Luna, as if it was obvious. "The one supports the other. So long as the connection—the connection in the Inhuman Empires, that is—so long as that is broken, the division will remain. But it's all the same in the end. Restore the connection, and the division—the Boundary—will be broken. Break the boundary, and the connection will be restored. Whichever approach you use, it will be the same—What's the matter, Hermione?"

She had gone completely white. "Just that… I think you might be right, is all."

Firenze was fixing her with a gaze far too penetrating for her liking. "And?" he prompted.

She looked at them helplessly for a moment. "We can't break the boundary."

"What do you mean?" asked Luna.

"The—um…" Hermione stared at the ceiling. "Dammit! Why does everything have to be so complicated?" she cried.

Both Luna and Firenze looked at her expectantly.

It took Hermione a long time to decide what to tell them. In the end she decided on the truth. "If the Boundary is broken, Slytherin will be restored."

"Oh" breathed Luna.

"How do you know this?" asked Firenze.

"I've been there—in the Faer Land."

"Really? What was it like? Is it true that there are flying carrots there?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," said Hermione drily.

"If you eat one, your eyes can fly, too. But only at night, for some reason."

She stared at Luna for a moment, and then broke out into laughter that verged on the hysterical. Firenze put a hand on her shoulder. "Go on," he urged.

Hermione calmed herself. "Apparently, it's ruled by the Blue King."

"Wait, if you've been there, then haven't you already broken the boundary?" asked Luna.

"No. The Blue King brought me in—and I was still protected by the boundary, or else I might have had three eyes or something."

"Or noses," Luna added sagely.

"Yes, well… According to him, I _can_ break the boundary. But the only way to do so is to bring a particle of Slytherin's remains into the Faer Land. I assume that if restoring the connection in a creature of the Inhuman Empires will break the boundary—which I have a feeling is correct—if I do that, I'm afraid a particle of Slytherin's will in fact be drawn into the boundary."

"Oh," said Luna.

Firenze looked at her steadily. "You cannot do this, then."

"Unless," said Luna, in the dreamy manner she acquired whenever she had a particularly brilliant thought—"Well, unless there was another boundary. To keep the particle from making it. Or perhaps if we found all of the particles—"

"How on earth would we do that, Luna?" asked Hermione.

"Ravenclaw's godfathers, of course."

She looked at Luna. "Hmmm." Firenze still looked hesitant. "Don't worry, I won't do anything to bring Slytherin back, but… it's just not _right_, for things to be like this for you. And your people have one of the lighter curses."

A silence fell over them as they ruminated over the situation, its possibilities, drawbacks, and consequences. Luna stared dreamily into space. Firenze's brow was furrowed. Hermione looked at the two of them, Luna and Firenze. She had just told the two of them the most important secret she had, without hesitation. Luna, whom she'd disparaged completely at Hogwarts. Firenze, who she had met, literally, once before. It should be Ron and Harry across from her. And she was suddenly very afraid that it would be a long time before either of them sat across from her again.

Voices came from the hallway, Padma's calm, elegant voice underlining Allistaire Avery's voice. "Are you sure she'll be in today?"

"Of course," said Padma. "She's returned from Mabon. There's nothing to stop her from being at work. Therefore, she'll be working."

The two of them appeared in the doorway. "Oh, hello, Hermione. Enjoy your little holiday with Draco?"

Hermione managed to restrain a disgruntled groan, but did not manage to repress the rolling of her eyes. "Yes, _thanks_ for telling Ron about it. You know he's so reasonable about these things."

Padma stopped and looked at her. "You didn't tell him?"

"There was no reason to."

Padma sighed. "He didn't act like anything was wrong at the game—Ginny was spectacular, by the way. You should have seen Harry. I swear, his thing with Quidditch is so sexual—the only girls he's been with played Seeker, it's unhealthy."

"Well, he wasn't happy. Which I knew would happen, which is why I didn't tell him—"

"Hermione, if you'd told him in the first place he probably wouldn't have been upset—" at a look from Hermione she added, "_as_ upset. And Parvati's my sister. I can't be secretive unless expressly told. Our only form of communication is gossip."

"You had a holiday with Draco Malfoy?" asked Luna, wide-eyed.

"Oh, hi Luna," said Padma. "And Professor—have you come for the study?"

"I have."

"You really spent time with Draco Malfoy?" continued Luna. "Voluntarily? Is there any chance you might have been exposed to nargles?"

"Um," said Hermione, who was starting to regret having brought the subject up at all. "_Wow_, Allistaire, those skin grafts have done wonders." There was a sort of lattice-work on his face, revealing how the grafts had been fitted together, and a more noticable line dividing the burned area from the unharmed portion of his skin. But the color was normal, and the skin looked healthy—a bit of transfiguration should restore him to utter normality. Hermione had a feeling they had just pioneered a new field in mediwizardry. She smiled, thinking of the indispensability of muggle medicine in the treatment's success.

Firenze shifted. "I should be leaving. I must prepare for my classes."

"Thank you, Firenze," said Hermione. "Do you mind—would you mind if I run a few tests, even though…" she left the sentence incomplete.

"Tests, yes. Research, yes. What action you take, however, is another matter."

"I know, Firenze, believe me. I promise not to do anything—well, you know what I mean."

Padma was watching the conversation curiously. "Well, I certainly have no idea what you're talking about."

Firenze bowed slightly to each of them, but deeper and with a smile on his face when he acknowledged Hermione. Then he left.

Hermione turned to Allistaire. "Come here," she said, gesturing to his old section of the lab.

Allistaire followed her. He had the expression on his face of someone trying not to hope. Hermione smiled secretly. She was confident that he only needed one last magical session, and she would be the one to provide it to him. She sat him down on his former caught and examined his face.

"How does it feel?" she asked.

"All right," he answered. "It does feel different than the other side of my face, but the difference is slight." He looked almost like a paler version of Draco Malfoy. He had the same coloring as his mother, only his eyes were pale blue instead of pink. He was slighter, smaller, his face slightly girlish—with a twinge Hermione realized his features resembled his father's almost exactly.

"It might never feel exactly the same," she said, drawing her wand in a complicated pattern. She focused on the lattice of scar tissue, ameliorating it, pushing it down the surface. The line dividing healthy skin from afflicted skin took the longest, but finally she eliminated it. Then she passed her wand over the smooth patch, still a bit smoother and shiner than the rest—there was no peach fuzz here. It would come. She smiled at him. "But it will look the same," she said, and handed him a mirror.

Padma ducked her head in. "I'm going to pop into Luna's for a cup of tea, Hermione. I'll be back in an hour or so."

"No problem," said Hermione, inspecting his hand as Allistaire inspected his face. Here, the damage was more obvious, and still slightly pink. Hermione took his hand, passing her wand over it, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"It's perfect," breathed Allistaire. "It's just like it was before. You're a bleeding genius, Dr. Granger."

Hermione grinned, imagining was Alicia Silversmith would say to his estimation of her and the use of the title Dr. Then she remembered that Alicia Silversmith had plenty of reason to hate her, and he smile faded. Once again, she turned to his hand. It wasn't pink, at least, but the skin was still a bit smooth and tight. It was completely unnoticeable at first glance, however. "I'm afraid this is the best I can do," she said.

Allistaire looked at his hand dreamily. "When I first came here, I thought—no, I _knew_ I would be scarred for the rest of my life. I know dragon burns can't be fully healed. I don't think it's possible to explain how grateful I am to you."

"You could always make a donation to the Creature Rights for All Project. We're in need of a rather large supply of Wolfsbane potion."

"Count me in," he said, and stood up from his table. He took the mirror again and stared wonderingly at his face. "So, did you find the dragon in Mabon?"

"We did not," came a drawling voice from behind her.

Hermione turned. "Draco, honestly—can't get enough of me?"

But he didn't answer her. He was staring in open shock at Allistaire. Hermione realized he hadn't seen much of the progress of the skin grafts. He walked over to Allistaire, peering at his face, and Allistaire laughed at him. "Amazing, isn't it?"

"Merlin's beard," whispered Draco.

"All thanks to Dr. Granger. Listen, Drake, sorry, but I really want to go and show Jules."

"Yeah," said Draco wonderingly. "No problem. No problem at all."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Granger!" he said, and roughly kissed her on the cheek, and fairly bounded out of the room like an overgrown puppy dog.

Hermione smiled at his retreating figure. "Not enough to make Mrs. Silversmith forgive me, but… hopefully, it's a start."

"No one," said Draco. "No one could have done that."

"I did," she said, giving him a satisfied look. Draco was continuing to practice his marveling gaze, and her smile faded.

He didn't say anything, and she started to, but didn't. There was a long silence, and Hermione had to look away, and was about to go to her desk and start reorganizing her files, and then she made the mistake of looking up. Draco was very close to her. His eyes were light blue, and Hermione wondered if everyone who had light blue eyes looked slightly evil, and then, unbelievably, he kissed her.

"What—mmph—Draco, Merlin!"

"Listen, just—" he thought for a moment. "You're amazing." And, with a wicked smile on his face, he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her again, a somewhat prolonged, though chaste, kiss. Hermione refused to look him in the eye when he released her. She sensed that he was smiling. He was.

"I—" started Hermione, when the worst possible thing presented itself to her.

Ron was standing in the doorway. He didn't look happy at all. In fact, Hermione was pretty sure she was entirely unacquainted with this particular look. His face was completely white and as immobile as stone. His eyes were burning and freezing at the same time. The only good thing about the expression on Ron's face was that it wasn't directed at her.

Draco was still smiling, proving once and forever the limitations of his intellect.

Ron's fist connected with Draco's face before Hermione realized his hand had even formed a fist in the first place. It connected hard. It made a sound, a sound like a bone breaking, and from the sound that Draco made when he was hit, the bone had definitely broken. By the time Hermione had processed this thought, Ron's fist had connected two more times. It was like some kind of horrible dream where everything was slow and she couldn't move. And again, and again. And again. Then Ron savagely kicked Draco in the stomach, and turned to Hermione.

She wished he hadn't. It was worse than the look the Blue King had given her. Hermione shook her head. Surely he could see she hadn't kissed back, surely he knew she didn't, they hadn't—"Ron, don't—" she started to say.

Ron smacked her. It wasn't hard. Judging from how hard he'd punched Draco it was very light indeed. But it woke her up. And it made her really angry all of the sudden.

"You don't even—" Hermione backed up for a moment, looked at him, let words fail her, and attacked him in a flurry of fists. "You hit me without even _asking_ or _seeing_ I cannot _believe_ you. Ronald Bilius Weasely, I will hurt you so much harder I swear on the entirety of wizarding history I will make you wish you had never been born—" And she was actually hitting him in the face and his lip was bloody. She realized he was letting her. She looked down at Ron. She was sitting on him, and she had a horrible feeling that he was crying.

"I deserved that," he said thickly, and managed to prop himself up. "Sorry. Wouldn't have—didn't mean to." He rested his head on his fist and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Ugh, Weasely, you complete tosser, I'll have you brought up on charges—" said Draco from his space on the floor.

"Silencio," said Hermione, pointing her wand at Draco without looking at Ron. He was looking at her, though, no doubt about that.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"You _hit _me."

"You can hit me some more if you want," he said quietly. "I really, really didn't mean to."

Hermione looked at him. He was crying, silently. It was horrible.

He didn't even know she had already kissed Tom Riddle. She had kissed him back. She deserved a slap, probably more. "I need you to go," she said. "Both of you."

"Granger—"

"Oh, fuck off, Malfoy. You did it on goddamn purpose for exactly this, you've gotten your wish, and I still have work to do."

She stood up as Draco left. Once again, Ron had drifted outside of her perspective.

"Listen," he said.

She did.

"Harry told me some things," he said. "I still don't think he's told me everything. Ginny won't tell me anything. But I know she knows more than me."

"What are you talking about?"

"The diary. The possession. Two sets of bones belonging to Lord Voldemort."

Hermione looked at him.

"Why me, Hermione?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why am I the last to know? Why do I know the least?"

Hermione looked over towards her desk. She still hadn't told any one person the whole story—no one knew about the incubus—but it felt, she was sure, that it needed to be that way. It still did. When she looked back at Ron, it was as though there was a panel of glass dividing the two that she had been unaware of before. Like she had just seen the light glinting off of it and realized she couldn't touch him any more.

"Go, Ron," she whispered, and tears broke out as she said it. It didn't keep her from meaning it.

"Hermione."

"I really, really need to be alone right now, Ron."

He stood up, and came to her. "Hermione, this doesn't feel right. If it was just—if he just kissed you and you—"

"Jesus God, Ron, it has so little to do with that you don't even know."

There was a pause. Hermione didn't like the sound of it. She liked the sound of Ron's voice even less. "Yeah, that's the thing. Of course I don't even know, if you won't tell me anything."

And then he was gone.

Hermione glared at her desk, and then at Chomper. She sighed. There was no way anything was getting done now. Part of her wanted to go to her flat, cry herself to sleep, and hope that the world would tilt on its axis and shake the events of today off like a dog shakes off water. Another part of her thought better of it.

.((0)).

Much later that night, Draco sat in his favorite chair in the Malfoy Manor sitting room. He looked up from Julian's latest personal report on the French Ministry. There were so many interesting little squabbles just asking to be taken advantage of, but this whole business with the Faer Land was taking up all of his time. He sighed as he looked over the parchment in discontent. It was one thing to give up work, which he loved, and another to give it up for something that was shaping up to be utterly futile.

"Ahem," came an unexpected voice from an unexpected proximity.

Draco looked up and dropped the report in shock. He almost cried out in surprise and was forever grateful that he didn't. Hermione Granger was standing in front of him, and she was radiating fury with all the subtlety of Chernobyl. He became aware, staring at her, that his mouth was rather stupidly open. "How—how—how did you get in here?"  
"Because I'm really, really smart…_Draco_." She spoke slowly and enunciated his name the way serial killers enunciate murder. She walked up to the chair he was sitting in. "Which is something I'd think you would take into consideration." She bent down over him and he realized she had her wand in hand, and not in an innocent way, and his was on the table, which she was blocking. "You know," she said in a menacingly light way. "Before you kissed me. In. Front. Of. My. Boyfriend." She jabbed her wand painfully into his chest with each of her last five words.

"Well, how was I to know he was there? He was completely out of my line of sight—and he broke my cheekbone, I had to stay at St. Mungo's another hour."

Hermione grabbed his collar and managed with surprising force to pull him towards her. "I'm going to kill you. I'm actually going to kill you. I'm going to make you die."

"I'd really appreciate it if you didn't. And also if maybe you restricted yourself to one way of putting your threats. I mean, that was a bit redundant."

Hermione just stared at him, wanting so badly to Crucio him that she was somewhat afraid she might cast the spell wordlessly on accident. "Why the hell did you do that? What on earth are you playing at?"

Draco was silent. His eyes were not. Just what they were trying to say, Hermione couldn't figure out at all.

"Draco Malfoy."

"What do you want? I have no idea, it was a moment of madness."

"It was a moment of manipulation," Hermione retorted, a knife in the last word.

"Believe what you like. How on earth did you get past the wards?"

"I made your house Unprotectable."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Now Draco's anger managed to overcome his fear. "Granger, that spell is irreversible!"

"You kissed me in front of my boyfriend."

"This isn't just _my_ house!"

"Well, just explain to your parents that the Mudblood you kissed cast the spell in retaliation for you trying to break up her relationship. I'm sure they'll put the blame squarely on my shoulders."

Now fear came galloping back into Draco's expression. "Don't you dare tell my parents."

"That you kissed me?"

"Will you stop saying it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I murdered a puppy."

Hermione let go of his collar and withdrew. She closed her eyes and pinched her nose with her fingers. "Ok." She turned back to him. "Here's how it will be. You will explain to me why you kissed me, or you will explain it to your parents."

"That's blackmail."

"Oh, you're a Slytherin, I'm sure you'll get over it."

"But you're a Gryffindor. You can't blackmail."

Hermione glared at him again. "Stop avoiding the subject. Tell me why you did it, and keep in mind I can Legilimens you if you don't tell me, and that won't stop me from telling your parents."

"You are _devious_."

Hermione folded her arms. "Well?" she asked.

He looked at a loss. He had gotten up, which he seemed to be viewing as a mistake now, because he was looking longingly at the chair he'd just vacated. He jammed his hands into his pockets and alternated staring at the chair and his shoes as he spoke. First he sighed. "Fine. Fine. The thing is, you are actually, um, prettier than you think. Or than I have led you to believe. Especially when you're angry. You have this rosy kind of thing that happens to your cheeks a lot. And when you pair it up with someone who is incredibly annoying and the best friend of your enemy, there can sometimes be… cognitive dissonance. Kind of." He steadfastly avoided looking at her.

"Cognitive dissonance," she repeated skeptically.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Right." She unfolded her arms. "Legilimens."

Draco looked up in angry shock the second the spell hit him. He immediately went for his own wand as soon as he recovered, not noticing how completely unrecovered Hermione had become. He turned on her. She was staring at him in amazement.

"You're… you're actually really attracted to me," she said in as accusatory a manner as she could muster. It wasn't very accusatory at all.

"Legilimens," was Draco's reply.

Hermione was too dazed to block his attack, and hadn't anticipated it at all.

"You enjoyed that kiss," said Draco.

Hermione gasped in indignation. "Against my will."

"Sure. You still enjoyed it."

"You complete prat!"

"Excuse me, Granger, but you just Legilimensed me. Aren't you supposed to have ethics?" Draco seethed, walking towards her pointing his wand at her like an accusing finger.

"You legimensed me back!"

"Yes, of course I did. It's perfectly acceptable in retaliation," he said.

Hermione looked up at him. Why did everyone in the world have to be taller than her? "You—"

"I," he said.

Hermione's eyes flickered wildly for a moment, between anger and frustration and shock and the desire to just let go—of the dozens of impossible situations she had become entangled in, of her life. She didn't know who did it first. But they were kissing. They were kissing fervently. Draco was a good kisser, immediately establishing a rhythm, no awkwardness, his tongue gliding and flickering over hers and her body pulled into his by the small of her back, his chest against hers and her back against the wall—how had that happened? "I am kissing Draco Malfoy, I am kissing Draco Malfoy, I am kissing Draco Malfoy," a voice sang in her head. With her eyes closed it was easy for Ron's face to come to mind. It was equally easy to willfully submerge her guilt and give in to Draco, who smelled very nice, like pine needles and soap, and his lips were soft and his hair was smooth and ticklish against her cheek. He was narrower than Ron, shorter if still tall. And warm, incredibly warm. "Oh my God," she gasped, breaking the kiss.

Draco stopped kissing her, but his hand was still on her neck and on her back and their faces were still close, exchanging breath. He said nothing. He just looked at her, his eyes half-lidded. They lifted up slightly at the edges, and had white-blonde lashes on them. And she thought of when he kissed her before, which made her think of the Impcap Wing, which made her think of Ron, and of the magical creatures and the Boundary and how it mustn't be broken and what was Tom going to do when he found out she wouldn't break the Boundary? She shook her head. "We can only kiss," she said, and on the last word was kissing him again, and he was kissing her back, squeezing her body even tighter against his, and she responded in kind, trying to keep herself from doing anything other than kiss him, but he wasn't helping, not at all, at all, at all, not with that exquisite thing he was doing with his teeth and the trail of fire he was tracing up her back and she arced against him and then he grasped each of her hands in his and pressed them against the wall, opening her up completely. He was kissing her neck, doing something brutally sexy to it, and she whimpered slightly in response. "No, don't," she whispered.

"I'm just kissing you," he said, and continued to assault her neck, and then moved the attack to more Southern regions. Hermione gasped at this, trying to unlock her hands from where they were held against the wall, but the struggle was in vain. Draco held her against him and kissed her breasts through her shirt. His breath was quick and hot and she could feel it moistening her skin, and she made the fatal mistake of stretching out her leg. Draco let go of her hand, caught her by the back of her thigh, and drew it in no uncertain terms upwards past his hip, arching into her. He groaned, captured her mouth again, and she pressed against him, her legs wrapping around him dangerously, and she was beginning to be very worried that she couldn't control herself at all.

Apparently, neither could Draco, because they were suddenly on the floor and she could feel the outline of his erection clearly and he was pushing against her and she was pushing back against him and it felt incredibly good, and when had they started making so much noise? When had they started writhing? Hermione desperately pushed away from him. Draco's hand immediately pushed his hair from his face and he lay back on the floor, breathing hard. Hermione, gasping, managed to roll off of him and onto her own position on the floor.

"Fuck," he said.

"This is surreal," she said.

"I know."

"This is not good."

"Yeah," he said, although he didn't sound so sure. He sat up, looking at the fireplace. "On the floor of the sitting room," he muttered.

Hermione tried not to stare at Draco and failed. How was it that fifteen minutes ago he was a prat and now he was undeniably handsome? She was being punished, that must be it.

"You should go," he said. "I can't—"

"I know," she said. "I get it." She put her feet underneath herself and tried to stand. She looked around at the room. Only now did she remember that she had ruined Malfoy Manor, that she had torn down all its wards and magically salted its earth in her initial temper. She had a sudden, perverse urge to recommend a muggle home security system. She shook her head, and looked at Draco, who was looking back at her from his sitting position on the floor, his cheeks flushed and his shirt unsettled. She really had to leave now.

So she did, without a goodbye. She headed back for the apparition point, trying hard not to think about the fact that she had undeniably and horribly just cheated on Ron. This was not an incubus's dream, or a parallel life—there was no undoing this.

Firenze might have been right about Mione being good, but Hermione was suddenly unsure of what his opinion of her might be.


	16. Chapter 16

Author Replies

Sad Stephen: January 28, 2005, 6:15 p.m. That's when. Just so you know.

Rosiline: Although the Hermione's are different, there's not so much of a light/dark aspect. Their different environments have shaped them differently, and will continue to do so.

Blackpants: Wow, a day. I've done that with fics before. There was one Snape/Hermione one that was so excellent, but it took SO LONG for the author to hook them up. I was very on the fence as to whether to have Ron slap her or not. The way it is in my mind, he honestly, really didn't mean to, it was a bit of an accidental extension of his beat-down of Draco. And not only does he love Hermione, but she loves him right back. I just can't go down the demonization of Ron path. Glad you like Draco, hopefully this chapter will make you like Tom more. I guess he is a bit peripheral in this fic, more so than I had originally intended, but he will be pretty huge in the sequel to this story.

Ankoku Dezaia: I know, I wish I were in her place as well. Though I would choose Tom, no contest. Dark hair, you know? It's a thing with me.

SailorHecate: I'm glad the last line resonated with you. Hermione isn't perfect at all, she is flawed, and she makes mistakes—even if they are sexy mistakes.

Herm': Thanks! It took so much longer than I expected to get to the wouuh.

Jkrowlingrox: Oh, you know, Tom's in love with Mione, not Hermione, so I don't think he'd have much to say, but he's not really going to find out. As for Ron, he's only with her because it's canonical. I'm not into the pairing either, as you can probably tell.

Omfg: Holy Gossip Girl, Batman! Sorry, now that acronym makes me think of that show even though I haven't seen a single episode. Yeah, Hermione was awful There will be repercussions to that.

Miss-Fleur-Riddle: He is, isn't he?

TheCrescentMoonWriter: In this chapter, I will attempt to turn you back into a Tom lover.

.((0)).

Hermione woke up from a pleasantly empty sleep, remembering no dreams and recalling no incubuses. The light coming into her room was golden, and she felt content and rested. It was a full ten minutes before the realization hit her with the power of an atom bomb.

"Oh my God. I cheated on Ron with Draco Malfoy," she groaned in horror, clutching her chest. Even more horrible, was that it had been fantastic. She gazed at the ceiling for a long time, trying to come to terms with the immutability of the past. If only she had just gone to her flat and cried instead of going to Malfoy Manor. She groaned again as she considered the fact that she had made the house Unprotectable. She wasn't sorry, not exactly—her temper still flashed at the memory of the scene in St. Mungo's—but there would be consequences.

An hour later, Hermione was pacing back and forth across her flat. It wasn't the best place in the world to do so. It was small, and her furniture was arranged rather like tetris pieces, turning it into comfy little compartments. Comfortable, neat little compartments that managed the space, made it something easy to deal with, something comprehensible. And that was what she did with her life, wasn't it? Put everything into neat little boxes, and stack them on top of each other. She'd been building something her whole life, feuling her campaign with excessive work and as much cleverness as she could manage. She'd always known she was going to do something important, something big. Ron had spent so much of his time being jealous of Harry he'd never questioned why Hermione hadn't had the same problem. Or maybe he thought it was because she was a girl. Harry had Voldemort, but she had something else, Voldemort's presence notwithstanding. She'd thought it was her campaign for creature rights—and it was that, wasn't it, a little? But now, she felt like something more was coming, something bigger than even her own ambitions.

And she needed help. Things weren't right. There was no solution to the problem of the boundary and the curse on the Inhuman Empires. She had cheated on Ron and there was no taking it back, and she wanted desperately to take it back. _Draco_. Draco Malfoy. What could she possibly have been thinking? She couldn't believe it had even happened, it was like some weird dream when you were having sex with some complete stranger and were enjoying it. Those kind of dreams, you could wake up from and not feel guilty about. Even dreams like Tom's dreams, you could wake up from with some justification—he was an incubus, after all, wasn't he? Bad enough that she couldn't dismiss or justify this. Bad enough she had no idea what to do, whether to tell Ron and beg his forgiveness or pretend it never happened. Worse still was Draco. She didn't know what he would do. He could tell Ron, Harry, Ginny—but then, _she_ could tell his parents.

And there was Tom. She had been ignoring it for a while now, but she had to think about what would happen if she finally admitted to him that she would not break the boundary, and she had to face the inevitability that he would find out that she could break it no matter what. But—but—who had he been, Tom Riddle?

She didn't know who he had been, but she did know what he was now. An incubus. Something she could do to do a bit of reading up on. She went to her Telebrain and looked up the Book of Ghosts, selecting the entry that explained the incubus and the succubus.

Eroticothanatos

By Betrand Pellamew

Incubae and succubae are perhaps the most misunderstood of all the ghosts, despite their notoriety. They are rare for their ability to solidify, and for their lack of choice in their ghosthood. Normally, a ghost is formed at the moment of death, when the person who has died is unwilling to go on to the next world. The incubus or succubus, however, has no such choice, and is entirely unconscious of the process. That is not to say will is not involved in the matter; in fact it is an incredible focus of will that creates an incubus. This will is always of a sexual or romantic nature, hence the reputation of incubi and succubae. If the dying person has an obsession exceeding ordinary love, if in his last moments he is consumed with the obsession, the incubus or succubus is locked into the world and into that dying moment of will. Similarly, they are locked within a certain boundary (usually a room) until their subject recognizes or remembers them.

The ghosts are able to transport their subject anywhere that they have been in their life. Their method of doing so is so far undiscovered. They are able to influence their subject, to persuade them, although in many cases there is no need to. No influence is possible, however, where no connection has been established, through touch or thought. In fact, if the subject is unaware of the incubus's or succubus's existence (and was unaware of the person's existence in life), the ghost will be unable to make any contact with them, unless they stumble across the location they are locked into at the moment of their death. Since very often the place they are locked into has some meaning for the ghost and its subject, contact is made more often than not. Whilst confined, incubi and succubae are capable of solidifying on their own, without the help of their subject's touch. But they are weakened in this respect when unlocked; after contact has been established, the ghost cannot solidify without the subject.

The link between subject and ghost is profound, even in those rare cases where the subject passes through life without knowing of their incubus or succubus. Let us take at one extreme the ignorant subject. Without contact or memory, the incubus or succubus will be unable to invade the subject's dreams or transport the subject. The incubus or succubus, however, will still have knowledge of the subject. They are always aware of their subject's bodily location, and they are capable of a general, if vague, insight into their subject's moods. As for the subject, they possess a certain receptivity to the ghost, as well. There is still an element of persuasion in their lives, even if it is invisible. Moods, thoughts, and ideas that are not the subject's own may wander into their heads.

At the other extreme is the knowing subject. Although incubae and succubae cannot intentionally achieve their ghosthood, the subject they leave behind sometimes knows their lover—or rapist—may have become such a ghost. More often, they remember the person, and their recall alone unlocks the ghost. This is almost always an inevitability. One stray memory of the ghost's living persona can connect the two. In fewer instances, an ignorant subject accidentally contacts the ghost. As soon as the incubus is unlocked, they come into their powers—the ability to transport their subject and the ability to actively persuade them. There is a last power the incubae and succubae possess, and it is what sets them apart from other ghosts. Only they are capable of incarnating their ghostly bodies. They can live again, and will, if a sexual union with their subject is achieved.

Although incubae and succubae enjoy notorious reputations, they are not nearly as dangerous as djinns or poltergeists. Not only is their influence limited entirely to their subject, but when their subject dies, they also will pass on, if they have not managed to incarnate themselves.

The greater part of the subjects of the ghosts are willing subjects, but that does not mean there are not some who are not willing, some who under persuasion or violence are forced to provide the ghost with the impetus of incarnation. Although an incubus's influence is limited to one subject, it can be an extremely damaging influence. Access to a subject's dreams, the ability to transport their subject, willingly or unwillingly to any place known to the ghost, the potential for violence that resides in their solidity—all this is a threat to the subject for the entirety of their lives. The only way to be free of the threat is to destroy the incubus.

There is to date, only one method of killing an incubus. One must prepare a solution of three equal parts: a unicorn's blood, given to the subject willingly; a dust made of the ghost's bones, and semen or menstrual blood provided willingly to the subject by someone they have had intercourse with. Proof of innocence, proof of the ghost's death, and proof of the subject's lack of reciprocation, are what is needed to put an end to an incubus or succubus.

…

Hermione leaned back from the Telebrain screen. In many ways, she was in the perfect position to destroy Tom Riddle's ghost. Chomper would surely donate his blood to her; she had the bones of both Tom Riddle and Voldemort; Ron, also, would surely make the necessary donation. Although, to be fair, he might accidentally murder her in a fit of jealous rage first.

But that wasn't what Hermione wanted to do. She had been thinking of Tom as an enemy, an affliction. Perhaps it was time to think of him as something else. Perhaps it was time to put him to use. With this in mind, Hermione went calmly over her medical cabinet and took out her packet of Valium. Hopefully, she thought, as she put the pill on her tongue, he would know to come.

.((0)).

She opened her eyes consciously, this time, expecting to be exactly where she was. The gold was glowing, radiating a comforting heat. The bedcover seemed warm, animated by its own life. She could feel Tom behind her. She reached behind her, felt an arm, and felt it startle under her touch. She leaned back deliberately against him. There's no use trying to go back, she told herself. She was going to have to take a different path. She was going to have to go forward.

Tom was rigid against her at first, the nature of his receiving touch suspicious. She leaned her head back and stared frankly up into his eyes, her face upside down underneath his. "I'd ask you if I could trust you, but I don't know whether or not you'd lie to me. Which I suppose answers my own question," she said softly.

"Why did you come here of your own volition? Why did you call me?" he asked, his face expressionless.

"Because I trusted you in another life," she replied. "I guess that will have to be enough."

Tom looked away from her, towards the cave wall that was very nearly obscured by the light the bed cast. "You haven't been telling you me the truth."

"Of course I haven't," she said.

The shadow of a smirk passed his face. "What's different this time?"

"I've come to an impasse."

Tom considered her face again. He was looking at her as if she was an equation he was determined to solve. "You could give up. Let things be as they are."

But they already weren't, and would never go back to being the way they were. That was the problem. "I could," she agreed, her tone making it perfectly clear that the choice wasn't an option. Still watching him, Hermione took one of his hands and deliberately drew it around her waist, circling herself with his left arm. He closed his eyes. She didn't. She'd had this, in another life. This had been—he had been her lover. Being in his arms made her understand it in a way she never had before.

"So this is felt like," she mused. "You're so warm."

"Usually," said Tom, "incubuses are devoid of heat."

"I suppose you must be different because she remembers it—Mione, I mean."

"I suppose you must be right. You usually are."

Hermione smiled a bit. "I certainly hope I am."

Tom drew his arms around her closer and pulled her into his lap. She allowed it, and allowed herself to draw comfort from it. "What did you come to tell me?"

"The boundary can be broken."

He sucked in his breath in response, and waited.

"If a particle of Slytherin is brought across the barrier, it will be broken."

"Ah," he said. "Thus the lying."

"Thus the lying," she agreed. "I can't pay the price of Slytherin's resurrection."

"Nor can I."

She turned in his arms to look at him in surprise. "Why on earth not?"

"You've read Rowena's story, haven't you? Salazar Slytherin could never tolerate the presence of someone like me. Someone whose hunger for power matches his own. I always used to wonder, even before I read that story, if he would even accept me as his Heir—I, a half-blood."

Hermione shook her head slowly. "I don't understand. You meant to continue his work."

"Voldemort meant to continue his work. And Slytherin's work was to remake the world entire in the Faer Land's image, eliminating everything that was non-magical. I never wanted that. I only wanted to find the Faer Land with you, and find my life's work within it."

She really didn't know him at all, did she? He was so different. She had thought, had been sure, that even if he was possessed by the avatar in his diary, that he must be close to what he had created. But what he had created had been bigger than his own ambitions, hadn't it? "Can you help me?" she asked.

"I hope so," he said, tucking a curl behind her ear. They regarded each other for a long while. "You are so like her," he said softly.

"I am her, aren't I?"

"In a way, yes. In a way, no."

She looked aside. "What was it like? Us?"

"Difficult," he said. "Even after you—she—destroyed the diary, there was what I had done. And it was necessary to follow the path to what I became. It was hard for her to trust me. Dumbledore managed to persuade her out of her trust for a time." At this his eyes darkened, and grew bitter.

"What do you mean?"

"When my family died, he made it seem to her as if I was the one responsible. He convinced her that the avatar was still living in my head, that I had manipulated her into loving me."

"You didn't—" but Hermione didn't finish the question.

"I didn't kill them."

"Are you saying that Dumbledore killed them?"

"He killed you. You know that, don't you?"

Hermione nodded slowly.

"Is it so impossible to believe?"

"No, I suppose not," she said softly, thinking. "But what about your other self? Why did you go on to become Lord Voldemort, if I destroyed the avatar? Or do you know?"

"I do," he said, narrowing his eyebrows. "I know what I came to do better than anyone aside from Lord Voldemort. When I—when I came to the Founder's Section, after I died, I gradually became aware of my other mind. I don't know why, perhaps it's something to do with being an incubus. I acquired all of his memories. When you went back to the future with my body, you believed Dumbledore. He did a very good job. You were going to kill me. I don't know what changed your mind—I still don't. It was only after we were in your time that you changed your mind. My other self remembered everything up until you went back in time. Dumbledore made sure of that, although he never realized it. He thought you had betrayed him, that you had gone back and killed me. And Dumbledore restored the avatar. He knew the future could be changed, and the means of gaining the power to do it. I suppose it all started with that—with trying to change the future. He never stopped fearing death."

"And you?" asked Hermione. "Now that you are dead?"

He offered a thin smile. "Funny that I'd become the one kind of ghost capable of living again, isn't it?"

She regarded him for a long, long moment. "And you want that, don't you?"

His eyes were deep and dark. "Of course I do."

She touched his face carefully. His skin was nearly as smooth as glass, cool with an underlying warmth. "Do you want it now?"

He let out a shuddering breath. "Yes," he hissed. Hermione drew slightly closer to him, her eyes half-lidded, watching his mouth. "But," he said.

"But?"

He closed his eyes as she caressed his face. "Think of Hogwarts, St. Mungo's, the Ministry."

"Ah," she whispered. "An alternative to apparition."

"Although," he said, drawing her closer, "it is only possible for me to transport you when you're asleep."

"You were able to get into the Ministry," she said. "In my fifth year of Hogwarts."

"Lord Voldemort was able," he said, his breath warm against her mouth.

"And you're not Lord Voldemort," she said, lips nearly touching his.

"No," he said, and drew her mouth to his. His lips were warm, and smooth. Their very touch sent an indescribable shock of electricity through her own lips, and they startled open. He pressed her closer against him, probing her mouth, her own mouth answering back. Their kiss was an exploration, a transformation, and a promise. He drew back, watching her, looking for the girl he lost in her brown eyes. "I love you," he whispered. "I'll bring you back."

She pressed her forehead against his and closed her eyes. "I'll help you."

They held each other for a long time. Nothing more was possible, for now. And there came a time, although they tried to postpone it, when it was time for her to wake up.


	17. Chapter 17

Heya guys—wee bit of a while, sorry. It's funny, I've been writing parts of the next sequel more than this story. Not losing steam yet! Much! This chapter is heavy on the other characters, something I've been a wee bit lazy about until now. Shout out to Marisa1—I think I'm gonna do the Livejournal thing. Um, help?

Rosiline: Yes, I believe it is the next chapter where a lot of things readers have been wondering about will be clear.

Scarecrow: Yes, and more complications ensue in this chapter. I don't like to make things easy for anyone.

Blindfaithoperadiva: Oh, you were disturbed. That's sweet. Poor Ron, as much as I never wanted Hermione to kiss him.

Jkrowlingrox: Seeing as JKR doesn't have a stance, probly way to adult for her books, I figured I would flesh it out so everyone knew exactly what Tom is and isn't capable of.

SailorHecate: I just realized, no Tom this chapter. No Draco, either, except for the very very end. But next chapter, Tom will rock.

Sad Stephen: I myself am madly in love with Barty Crouch Jr. Even with the tongue thing. I totally watch Dr. Who now.

Miss-Fleur-Riddle: Yeah, I don't know how it happened, but now time with Tom is sweet and time with Draco is tension-filled and sexy. Although all that will change in the sequel to this.

TheCrescentMoonWriter: Glad it's working. Thanks!

AnkokuDezaia: Sorry it took a little time this time, I believe you will see a lot of Tom in the next chapter, if I don't split it up or anything. Anyhow, enjoy!

.((0)).

Nearly everyone had left the Auror office for the day. Kingsley Shacklebolt was still in the Head Office. Ron was bent over his desk, as he had been all day, focusing on his paperwork as if it were Wizard's Chess. There was a row of five coffee cups on his desk, testament to the fuel of the day's furious work. Harry knew Ron well enough to know that he wanted to be left alone and expected Harry to be able to read his wish and grant it. Harry sighed and tried to sort his desk into some kind of order. Usually, with Ron, it was best to give him what he wanted. He was too pigheaded to deal with otherwise. So Harry shouldered his satchel and headed for the fireplace, when it flamed a bright chartreuse and Ginny stepped out of it.

"Hello, Harry," she said. She was wearing jeans and a green top that Harry liked. He smiled when she walked up to him. They were talking again. She kissed him easily and quickly on the lips. "Don't get the wrong idea, I'm here for my idiot brother."

Harry could practically feel the nib of Ron's quill tear through a bit of parchment. "Right," he said, glancing at Ron, who was staring stone-faced at the hole in his paper. "Good luck."

"Don't need it. I'm his sister. See you later tonight," she said, kissed him on the cheek, and gave him a goodbye sort of pat on the shoulder, which Harry obeyed immediately.

Ron waited until Harry left in another green flash. "Oy, Ginny," he started.

"Silencio." She took a large bottle out of her bag. "You know the rules. Can't talk before drinking." She looked at one of his coffee cups in disgust, charmed it clean, and transfigured it into a tumbler. She handed it to Ron, who grudgingly drank it to the dregs. Ginny finited her spell.

"I need it anyway."

"Yeah. So what happened?"

"How do you know anything happened? I suppose Hermione told you, did she?"

"No, Ron. Actually, it was more the fact that you got into a duel with Fred, got turned into a guinea pig, punched Percy, and refused to eat any of your dinner."

"Percy was being a prat," Ron grumbled.

"If Percy got punched every time he was a prat, the man would be dead by now."

"Yeah," said Ron, holding his tumbler out for more Firewhisky. "That's fair."

Ginny poured some into her own tumbler and sat unceremoniously on Harry's desk. "So?"

"Oh, nothing," he snorted. "Just Hermione's cheating on me with bloody Draco Malfoy, and I'm going to kill him."

Ginny regarded him quizzically and, after a long moment, burst out into hearty laughter. "Merlin, Ron, you really are _such_ a daft piece of work!"

"Oh, laugh why don't you!" yelled Ron, downing the rest of his shot immediately after.

"Oh, come on. What happened?"

"Well, first," he said, "first was at the match—nice job on that feint you've been working on, by the way. Padma said Hermione was spending the weekend at Malfoy's house in Mabon."

"Oh," said Ginny, frowning. "Well, I suppose I could see that—"

"How is it possible to see that?" exclaimed Ron.

"It's just this—well, you know, all of this business—"

"I don't know all of this business and you know it!"

"Again," said Ginny, her eyes flashing, "calm down. I don't know everything either. All I know is that Harry told Hermione about what happened the night he came back." She sighed. "What else is there? Aberforth turned out to still have the diary, so there are two, and Harry says Hermione told him that Malfoy had a set of Voldemort's bones—"

"What?!" said Ron. "_A_ set? As in one of _a_?"

Ginny nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so. It seems we have two Lord Voldemorts, as the result, Harry says, of time travel, although he refuses to explain how or why this could be."

Ron was chewing on his lip thoughtfully. "Don't you see? That must be what happened that night! Everyone knows the Lord Voldemort they found was young, everyone just thought it was because of his obsession with immortality, but it wasn't." He frowned. "It must have been Tom Riddle—and that note! In Hermione's book! Whoever wrote it must have known."

"Why would you say that?" asked Ginny thoughtfully.

"Hunch," said Ron, waving his hand dismissively. That was all the explanation that was usually needed. Ron was good with hunches. Ron was good with Auror work in general. Half the reason he liked his job so much was that it was one of the few things he was better than Harry at. "Now, if I know Hermione she'll have found a way to get to know what she wants out of that map—do you remember the one, with that book she had along with the diary, the one we were analyzing for hours—" he broke off and looked at Ginny. "Do you know anything about that?"

She shook her head and took another sip of Firewisky.

"I'll ask Snape tomorrow, first thing in the morning."

Ginny nearly spat out her drink. "_You'll_ ask Snape?" she managed to ask.

"Yes," he said, with a relish she didn't like. "If she's found what she was looking for in those Dungeons, he'll know about it. And that book—the blue one. We never did read it, did we?"

"What with how you feel about reading—" started Ginny with a grin.

"Don't be swotty," he said, standing.

Ginny looked up at him. "Where are you going?"

"To find out what she'd been keeping from me," said Ron, with a clenched jaw.

Ginny shook her head. "Not before you finish telling me what happened."

"All right, I found them kissing in her damn laboratory, all right, Ginny?" he said, his face flushed and determined.

"No, Ron," she said, frowning as she put her hand on his arm. "I know the both of them. Surely you must know it was Draco trying to make you jealous, Ron? I mean, that's obviously got to be what happened. He saw you coming in out of the corner of his eye and swooped down on her like an albino vampire bat."

It was saying something about his temper that Ron didn't immediately laugh at a slight to Malfoy.

"Ron," she said, warningly.

"If it was that," he said, "I'll find out, won't I?"

Ginny sighed in an exaggeratedly put-out way. "Honestly, Ron, what can you even do at this hour?"

"I can talk to Alicia Silversmith," he said, and walked toward the fireplace.

.((0)).

Ron lurched over the doorstep of Alicia Silversmith's receiving room. Mrs. Silversmith was standing, her back to him. She was wearing a pale gold dressing gown and her pale hair seemed as if it had just been set.

The woman sighed. "Ronald Weaseley, is it? Why doesn't the girl just come to me herself if she's so curious?"

Ron steadied himself. The anger and sense of self-righteous purpose, the sense of having a puzzle to be solved, had all evaporated once Ron had seen Alicia Silversmith. She was old, old money. He felt as if his pockets were actually aching from severe emptiness upon seeing her, this room, her posture. Ron remembered that he didn't so much despise rich people as he fervently feared them.

The woman turned, and Ron stood as stoically still as possible. "Well?"

"Well, um, it's not Hermione. That I'm here to see you about. Or whose behalf on which I am speaking. Thing," he finished lamely.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Yes. I'm the one who wants answers."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "I see." She paused and looked at him. Ron had a suspicion it was actually a rich person's version of a glare, but he wasn't sure. "Why should I give you any answers?" She pronounced her "w" as if it had an "h" embedded in it.

"I… Well… Hey—weren't you trying to warn people? In that book?"

"I see my little note has made a splash."

"Um… well?"

"What do you want to know?"

Ron sighed. "Everything."

Alicia Silversmith offered him a brittle little smile. "Are you sure you'd like to know _everything_, young man?"

Ron's expression managed to regain some of its former determination. "Yes. Everything."

"Very well, although I don't know how pleased your… girlfriend will be."

Ron shook his head. "I don't care."

"Good."

.((0)).

That morning, Hermione was woken by Padma Patil's owl, a speckled brown wood owl. He was the friendliest owl Hermione had ever met. He never snapped at your fingers, and indicated its wish for a treat with a puppy-doggish look of longing. He was pecking timidly and steadily at her window in order to wake her. Hermione sat up in bed and untied the scroll from its leg. The note was written in Padma's dignified long scrawl.

"My turn, Hermione," it read.

Hermione frowned at it. She shrugged and decided Padma must be at St. Mungo's, even though the sky was just starting to lighten. She blearily went through her morning oblations, managing to set some coffee to brew before she took her shower so that it was ready for her. She fixed it in a mug and idly transfigured the mug into a cardboard take-away cup. She yawned as she went through her door, wishing for the hundredth time that she could simply apparate into St. Mungo's.

This morning her impatience was worn to an edge due to her sleepiness, so she simply apparated to within a few blocks of the hospital, from an alleyway a few steps from her buiding's door. She sipped at her coffee as she forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace towards the building. If only she didn't have to hide everything from the muggle world. If her parents had been able to accept her nature, after all, why couldn't the rest of the world? She shrugged philosophically at her own inner thoughts, and entered the white corridors of St. Mungo's. She followed the same twisting, overlong route she did every day, and had almost lost control of her patience by the time she'd gotten to the Impcap Wing.

Terry, Padma, Luna, and Firenze were waiting. They abruptly ceased their discussion when Hermione entered. She blinked slowly at each of them in turn. "What?" she asked.

"Oh, it's just that Padma has come up with a brilliant solution to all of our problems with this Faer Land and Faer-Land-related boundary," said Terry, grinning at Padma, who tried to restrain a smile.

"It was Luna and Firenze, really. See, first Firenze was talking about definitions—definitions are very important to centaurs."

"One of the reasons our work is so imprecise is because of the problems of definition. It's easy to see in the case of time travel—take yours, in particular. Do we define time as something that cannot be undone, that had already been determined, or is it something that can be changed?"

"So there's this concept of denotation, where a definition isn't a description of the object. The object is simply defined as being the real world object to which the name corresponds. So the definition isn't a description of the named object, but the object itself. And then Luna was talking about Runes, and how there are some Runes that are like that—they're not names, or words exactly. They pick out an object—or a person, or an animal."

"Or a city. Or the sky. The moon, once," added Luna

"Right. So a lot of really old Rune magic is based on that—the tie between the denoted object and the symbol. If you manipulate the symbol, you can manipulate the object. So then, I realized that surely, in principle, you can come up with a symbol that denoted any object you like."

"That sort of magic hasn't been done in years," murmured Hermione consideringly.

"Yes, so it was just a matter of discovering how they went about it. _So_ I just ran a psychometric analysis of denotative runes—I call them that for lack of a better term—and anyways, I sort of got it, you just have to establish several aspects of the object and encrypt them the right way and—anyway—" Padma turned around briefly, picked up a piece of paper from her desk, and thrust it at Hermione.

Hermione looked down. There was a bizarre mandala of lines and squiggles. "Well—huh. What—exactly—have you—"

"It's the symbol for Salazar Slytherin. With it, we'll be able to control every particle that can be denoted as being Salazar Slytherin."

"Merlin," breathed Hermione. "We can get a particle."

"Actually," said Terry with a grin, "we can get every single particle. And that means we can do what we like with his remains. Carry them over the boundary and break it, carry them right back over, unresurrected, forever locked to their rune. We can have our cake and eat it too."

Hermione looked up from the sheet of paper. "Padma," she said wonderingly, "you're a bloody genius."

Padma couldn't restrain her smile this time.

"Have you tried this at all?"

"No," said Padma firmly. "We're going to proceed very carefully here, Hermione. We need to make sure there won't be any problems."

"Yes," murmured Hermione. "Of course."

"Runes always was my favorite subject," said Luna dreamily.

"Speak for yourself. Transfiguration was my favorite," said Padma.

"It was Charms for me," said Terry.

"Charms?" chorused Padma and Hermione is united disbelief.

"What? They're very interesting, and they can be a lot more powerful than anyone gives them credit for being—a charm is what stopped Lord Voldemort from killing Harry Potter, after all."

"Do you—you know what spell Lily Potter used?" asked Hermione.

"Um, well—er. No." said Terry. "Not technically. Nothing to do with the Brain Room." He shrugged and begged them with his eyes not to ask.

"She worked in the Department of Mysteries, though, didn't she?" asked Hermione.

"Famously," Terry admitted. "So, Hermione," he continued in a bald-faced attempt to change the subject, "what was your favorite subject?"

"Oh, arithmancy," she responded without a pause. "I always had an idea of retiring as an arithmancy professor—it's funny, when I think of Hogwarts, I miss arithmancy class more than anything else."

.((0)).

Professor Snape scowled as he added a gingko leaf to his Wolfsbane Potion. That damned Lupin had managed to make him feel guilty again—it was uncanny how he managed to do that, where so many others had failed. He'd talked Professor Snape into trying to concoct a potion that was simpler to brew—half the reason the potion was so expensive was because so few potions masters were able to brew it. He wasn't in the best of moods when there was a knock on his door. He was unhappier still when he saw who it was.

Ron Weasely stood in his doorway, white-faced and tense. "So," he said. "Just tell me what she found in the Dungeons."

Professor Snape arched his left eyebrow. "Beg pardon?"

"You and Hermione." Ron glared at his feet. And probably Mouth-oil—sorry, Malfoy. What did you find?"

"Ah," he replied, smirking. "So she didn't tell you, did she?" He turned his back to Ron and walked back to his potion. "It must be terribly upsetting for you. I suppose Harry knows everything—"

Professor Snape couldn't possibly have known how stupid it was for him to go on, how very much Ron wanted to punch someone, and what a fantastic target he made. He was out cold before he'd realized his mistake, and was knocked out cold enough that upon recovering he couldn't quite say what had happened, only that Ron Weasely had definitely been there before he lost consciousness. He wouldn't remember being legilimensed at all.

And Ron strode out of Hogwarts, walking his way into Hogsmeade, trying to grapple with the kind of emotions you deal with when you find out that your girlfriend went back in time and became Lord Voldemort's lover. And then apparently died, which was all the bones could have meant. It was a really special breed of emotion, tamable only with the help of Maddy's Special Madsinthe. He was pretty sure Madame Rosmerta always kept a bit on hand.

.((0)).

She was just returning from a coffee run, bearing two cups in her hands, both for herself. It was chilly out and she had no gloves on, and was using the coffee to keep her hands warm. Padma and Terry were still analyzing Padma's rune, and Luna and Firenze had gotten into a conversation about astrologically-related runes. She wanted to put a temperature-fixing charm on her cup since it was rapidly cooling in her hands. It was annoying not being able to use her wand in public. She frequently went down dodgy roads or ducked into toilets to perform bits of magic. If only the Statute of Secrecy didn't have to be—and did it, really? It was a thought she often had but hadn't ever considered seriously because it made her tired.

She felt suddenly very parched. Unfortunately, coffee wasn't the most refreshing of all possible beverages, but it would have to do, because she was extremely thirsty, and the thought of making her way through the circuitous route to the Impcap Wing discouraged her from holding out for something cold. Anyway, the coffee couldn't be more than lukewarm at this point. Hermione took a tentative sip, and then drained half the cup before she realized it tasted funny.

Hermione frowned at the cup. It tasted funny. Potions funny. Snape funny. Fred and George funny. She turned around, bumping into a woman walking behind her, which jostled her a lot more than it should have. She apologized quickly and scanned the crowd. It didn't take her long to find a familiar face. Draco Malfoy was standing there in the middle of the street, forcing people to walk around him. He was grinning at her very, very, malevolently. That was the last thing she saw.


	18. Chapter 18

OK, guys. This chapter is amazing. It just beat me with a stick and carried me over to a cave and wrote its damned self. Something in here for both the Draco and Tom fans.

Blindfaithoperadiva—yeah, it's that red hair. When we check back in with Ron, he will be listed under the dictionary as "Pure Rage". I mean, he's found out about Tom Riddle. Poor man is obviously going to go off his tether.

Rosiline: Here's more, and soon.

Sad Stephen—everyone's so surprised about that. But I had to let Ron get it out of his system somehow, right?

Mrs. Tom Riddle—you are so on the right page there. Read on.

Jkrowlingrox: I won't dangle you over the cliff for wrong. This is the chapter is which I finally reveal what Draco's up to.

Blackpants: Yes. He did. What fun is a bad guy without him being actually bad?

The CrescentMoonWriter: Now you know.

.((0)).

When Hermione opened her eyes, she saw Draco. That had been the last thing she'd seen, so at least it was appropriate. He was looking at her in a satisfied way, the satisfaction not of a cat that's eaten a canary so much as a great white shark that's managed to bring down a ship. "So," she said, and closed her eyes again. She could still feel the effects of the potion, and her eyelids were very heavy.

"Shhhh," he said.

"Don't shush me," she sighed, dragging her hand across her eyes. "I have the right…" She wasn't sure what right she had, but it was some sort of right.

"You're confused," he said, and there was a warm, damp pressure on her forehead. Her eyes flickered open and saw that he was sponging her forehead.

"Not," she said. She opened her eyes and forced them to stay open. "I'm not really confused at all, Draco," she managed, and slumped back into—a heap of pillows? And her arms were tied, but that wasn't unexpected. She was dealing with a Slytherin, after all. How on earth had she managed to get here, manipulated by Draco Malfoy? She turned her head to the side and eyed the bed she was on.

"Well, you always do catch on quickly."

"You really want to break that boundary, don't you?" she asked.

"Not just me," said Draco.

"Ah," she sighed, equally sleepy and knowing. "Alicia Silversmith."

"And a few dozen or more friends," said Draco smoothly. "Speaking of which, my parents are terribly angry about the house. It seems one of the house elves saw you do it." He sighed in an exaggerated way. "Pity your Auror friends aren't here, isn't it?"

"Oh, that's all right," she said. "I'm sure you'll take good care of me."

There was a pause, and Draco again applied the compress to her head. "I will, you know," he said.

"Because you're really a good guy," said Hermione. "Just like Snape. Double, triple, quadruple, quintuple agent. Something like that. Some explanation. Maybe someone imperiused you. Maybe life wasn't fair. You're just misunderstood."

"No need for sarcasm, now."

She opened here eyes and glared at him. Light blue eyes _were_ evil. "What do you want?"

"The truth," he said simply, and lifted a cup towards her lips.

She looked at it and smiled. "Too bad you didn't put a thirst charm on me first, or I might have drunk that veritaserum of yours."

"Well," said Draco easily, withdrawing his wand, "it's still possible. After all, you drank your coffee."

"Anyone who wasn't Mad-Eye Moody would," she muttered.

"You'll never live it down," Draco said with a smile. "A Slytherin got the better of Hermione Granger."

Hermione gave him a considering glance. "What if I told you that I can break the boundary? What if I told you that I planned on doing it as soon as it was possible?"

"Maybe I don't believe you."

"Maybe you should."

Draco was looking at her as if he was angry with her. But what right had he to be? "You should know your story will be tested, one way or another."

Hermione thought about that, wondered what number a few dozen or more was. Thirteen, fourteen? Twenty? "Why are you so eager to be the one testing me?"

"I'm not." Yet he still sounded angry. Then he let out a frustrated sigh. "It's not me. Everything's already decided. The truth will come out one way or another."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Then what are you doing here?"

He smirked. "I'm the person who was here when you woke up."

"Oh."

"Ideally, I should be sending Parsifal over to Mrs. Silversmith right now."

"Parsifal?"

"The owl."

"Oh. So why don't you do that?"

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Trying to bluff me?"

Hermione raised herself into an upright position and gave Draco a knowing look. She considered him for a moment as if he was a hand of cards. "What else are you going to do, let me go?"

He sighed. Hermione inspected herself. Her coat and blazer had been taken off and her shoes were missing, but she was fully dressed. She drew her foot, covered past her knee with a white stocking, closer towards herself. "I could make it easy for you," he said. "I could help you. Merlin knows you're going to be difficult about this, but you have to listen to me, trust me."

She drew her knee inward and pressed her foot against him. "Right," she said, turning her eyes up to him after a few moments. She drew a line up his chest with her toe, watching him as she did it.

Draco tilted his head and shook it. He placed his hand around her foot and inclined closer towards her. "Are you trying to start something? Do you honestly think I can't see through you?"

She looked up at him, pulling her foot out of his hand. "Do you think I'm scared of you, Draco?" She balanced her calf carefully on her knee so that her toe was curling around his neck. "Because, do you know, it's the strangest thing, but I think I've found the Gryffindor in me at last." She fixed her eyes on him in a way that suggested the binding on her wrists didn't matter. "I'm not afraid of anything." She hooked her foot, and her leg after it, around Draco, and drew him forward, into her, and kissed him.

He withdrew from her after a moment, breathing unsteadily, his hand on her shoulder, propping himself up. "That's not fair."

"Well," said Hermione, moving alongside him and dropping her words into his mouth, "Neither is you tying me up. Hardly sporting, is it?"

He was peering into her eyes now. Hermione peered back. "Just. Just tell me the truth, Hermione, _please_. No games, no struggle, because I can't help you if—just tell me the truth and you can go." Hermione studied his expression, trying to discern the malice, the deceit. There were, of course, several layers of it.

"Sorry, that just doesn't sound like much fun to me," she said, looking up at him with a near glare and a deadly sort of smile. She wound one and then the other of her legs around his waist, and her skirt moved well past the line of the top of her stockings. She actually did feel a sort of power, a sort of control. It felt good. She knew how to get what she wanted. She smiled to herself.

"Fine, then, Hermione," he said. "If this is how you want it." He buried her mouth under his and levered his body against hers in no uncertain way. It provoked an immediate response. She leaned backwards, kissed him back, and pressed against him. Draco let out a jagged breath and began to grasp her with his hands, outlining her through her clothes. He circled her breasts and cupped them with his hand, and she bit into his lip, making him thrust unthinkingly forward. There was a short "Oh!" from her, and then he buried his face in between her breasts, impatiently opening up her shirt. He grasped at the straps of the bra underneath, and pulled them down, exposing her breasts. Draco kissed them, his mouth hot and his breath quick, feeling drunk as he pushed against her and she pushed back. "Merlin," he hissed.

He rose, and she put her hand down between them, and slipped her hand into his underclothes, and he cried out, and had to catch her to keep from falling. He kissed her and ran his hands up her legs, pushing her skirt up until her underpants were visible, and he pressed against her, her hand in between them, making her gasp softly against him. Hurriedly, he tore her underwear down, his own on their way, assisted by a helpful foot. He leaned into her, pushing her against the headboard, and entered her. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, and he placed a hand on her bare hip.

She looked up at him, mostly naked, and he groaned as he pulsed against her, and she let out a dying, interrupted sigh. She kissed him again, and pulled his body against hers with her leg. Draco contorted against her, trying to bring her closer to him, mouth fighting against hers as they rocked against each other. "—feels—" he managed, and Hermione immediately silenced him with her lips. They breathed into each other's mouths, Draco drew her towards him in desperation, and then he picked her up bodily, laid her down on her back, and grasped her as he thrust into her, groaning as she cried out, and after a strangled cry he fell on top of her. His breath was heavy and quick.

He laughed into her neck. "Is this the part where you ask me to let you go? Because I might really be tempted."

"No," she said. She was smiling but her half-lidded eyes were indifferent. "Just let me sleep, Draco. Stay here and let me sleep, and then I'll do whatever you want me to."

He smiled back at her. "Gryffindors and their consciences," he said.

She closed her eyes before she had a chance to glare. After all, her conscience had enough anvils to carry as it was. Never mind the fact that she had just slept with Draco Malfoy in order to buy herself enough time to escape from the grasp of him and whoever else was interested in the Faer Land. It was the most Slytherinish tactic conceivable, and she had just not only done it, but had managed to actually out-Slytherin a Slytherin.

Draco lay beside her, and she allowed him to hold her as she put her clothes back into place and waited calmly for sleep.

..((0))..

"Mione."

Hermione opened her eyes. "Tom." She said. She sat up. This was an entirely different feeling that usual. It wasn't the undreamlike dream sensation. It was more as if she had just woken up. They were on the golden bed, but it was no longer glowing so brightly that it obscured the walls. She could see the layers of rock arching over the bed, and the entrance to Grawp's cave.

Tom was sitting at the foot of her bed, as usual in his dark suit and Hogwarts robes. His foot was touching her toe, and he was toying with her wand. He returned his gaze to it as he spoke. "I've been waiting for you to wake up. I couldn't take you in the usual way."

Hermione withdrew the covers and looked at her stockinged feet. "My shoes and coat are still wherever I was."

"Mabon," said Tom absently. He aimed Hermione's wand at a stone near the exit and murmured a spell. The rock was transformed into a pair of leather shoes exactly the same color as the rock they had been transfigured out of.

"Thanks," she said. Tom twirled the stick a bit and the shoes levitated and floated over to her. Then he accio-ed a stick and transfigured it into a heavy brown coat. He placed the wand on the bed and allowed her to put her shoes on, breaking their connection and returning him to his transient, ghostly form.

When Hermione had tied her shoes Tom circled her ankle with his long fingers. He looked consideringly at them. "You have such small feet," he said.

"I'm small," she said, shrugging.

Tom pulled her towards him by her ankle, and she leaned forwards and grasped his wrist as he did. "You weigh as much as a large bird," he said, watching her as she turned her face upwards to receive his gaze. She did so warily, considerate for a long moment before speaking.

"I, literally, just slept with someone else." She looked him in the eyes, but his face remained expressionless. "Not even my boyfriend." She smiled and shook her head, breaking their gaze. "So… that's him—and Ron…and you." She returned her gaze to him. "Because, let's face it, I don't really have a good excuse for you. You're not a dream, after all. And I—" she sighed. "I don't even know if I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

Tom cupped her face in his hand. "You're not mine," he said, and something in the slight tilt of his mouth suggested amusement. "You're not Mione, I know that. I don't care what you do. It's just…" and his eyes, with their heavy fall of eyelashes, flickered down, for a moment, towards her mouth. "So tempting. You're so much like her. The things you both can do, you're… like me."

"Don't say that," she whispered. "I don't want to be like you. I want to be sorry, it's just there's too much, and I can't handle it anymore. This isn't like anything I've ever done, it's not like inventing the Telebrain or taking too many courses or campaigning. The right decision is in my hands. I can change the world and make it right, but I have to make the right decision, and you, and then—" She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a shuddering sigh. "It's too much. It's too much." She opened her eyes again. "Help me," she said softly.

"Hermione," he whispered, and kissed her forehead briefly. He drew her against him and she let herself be comforted by the simple embrace. "Do what you think you must. Let your instinct guide you. There is a new world out there, and it's waiting for you to open the door. Open it, Hermione."

"Open it," she repeated. Her eyes flickered up. They were dark, and deep, and distant. "It can be done," she whispered. "I can feel it. If I just stretch a little farther, it can be done… so easily. How much do you know about runes, Tom?"

"One of my better subjects at school," he said.

"Padma's come up with a rune that should be able to call every single particle of Slytherin to it. If we control all of him, we can break the boundary without any repercussions… and I can do it, I think I know exactly, it makes sense, and if you confirm it…" the spell disappeared from her eyes. "But they want it. Draco, Alicia Silversmith, the Averies, and probably more people than that."

"Alicia Silversmith? The Averies?"

"All your old friends," she said.

"What can they be up to? Why would they want the boundary open?"

"All sorts of reasons. Especially when they've had decades of being told to search for it. It probably gave them all time to consider the benefits of opening up the Faer Land."

"Hmm," said Tom. "I've known Alicia Silversmith. If I know her, we'll be wanting to know her reasons."

Hermione looked at him. "You killed her husband," she said. "Did you know that?"

"Adrian? Lord Voldemort killed Adrian?"

"You killed all of them, except Alicia. I believe you missed out on that particular conversation in the Room of Requirement."

He lifted his head and considered the wall behind her. "Strange."

"Is it?"

"That I didn't kill Alicia. She would be the first one to go, if I were to plan their deaths."

"Maybe she managed to avoid you," said Hermione, and remembered that it was her other self that had hidden Alicia's Penseive and left it at Gringot's for her to claim, years later. Perhaps it was that, the Penseive, that had kept Alicia alive.

"They couldn't know about _me_, could they?" It was clear he meant, not Tom Riddle, not Lord Voldemort, but his current, ghostly form.

"They could, theoretically," said Hermione. "Not you per se, but they have—Draco Malfoy has—Lord Voldemort's bones. They know the bones they found at Hogwarts weren't his, that they were another self. They're curious about it. They know time travel was involved."

"Ugh, a Malfoy, too. Is it only them? No one else knows?"

"The wide world doesn't know, but my friends know a few things."

"Why?"

"I was curious, too," she said. "I wanted their help."

"I told you everything," he said. "Don't you know that my bones are one third of what's needed to destroy me?"

"Well, they can't know you're an incubus, or they'd never have let me sleep."

"They could find out, couldn't they?"

She looked at him. They'd certainly made it known they were after her secrets. "It's true they're trying to get me to tell them what I know about the Boundary. But so far, it's only been Veritaserum. I saw what Alicia did to—me, I guess—in the Room of Requirement. She used Veritaserum there, as well. If she tries to Legilimens me, I'm sure I'm the stronger Occlumens. Maybe someone would try to Polyjuice themselves into someone who knows the whole story. I'll have to have a code. And I'll have to monitor everything I drink." He was listening to everything she said, weighing it carefully. She was surprised he was still concerned. "That's all considering they don't even know what to look for, where you're concerned. The Faer Land is the priority. Even if they did successfully get information out of me, it's all guided by the questioner or the spellcaster."

"That's true," said Tom. "But…"

"What?"

"It doesn't feel right. I'm wholly unprotected, when it comes to that damn potion. Especially if there's two people now who can provide another third of it."

"Oh," breathed Hermione. She hadn't considered that particular implication of sleeping with Draco Malfoy.

"Just be careful," said Tom, lightly circling her ear with a finger. Hermione tickled his hand with her fingers and trailed them slowly up his arms. "Very careful," he said, closing his eyes for a moment. His hand drifted to her neck, trailing his long fingers towards its back, embracing it in his hand. He drew her forwards by her neck, and she let her lips be guided by his, let herself be kissed, let herself enjoy the perfect pressure of his lips. He kissed her eyes, her forehead, her cheeks, her lips again, her throat, her earlobe, her shoulder. She sighed, opened her eyes, and kissed him.

"It's you, isn't it?" she asked him. "You're the reason I can't gain a foothold in this madness. You're the reason I keep losing touch with who I'm supposed to be."

"Why do you think that?" he murmured. "Are you just too scared to consider the implications if the reason is just yourself? If this is just who you are?" He probed her mouth gently with his tongue, and she allowed it, answered it back. They kissed, deeply, for a long time. It was provoking a longing deep in her heart, a deep, dark longing that had only whispered to her before. It spoke of stars and blood and disguises, chaos and change underneath a thousand masks, a story that had come before, and was tempted to tell itself again. When she kissed him, it felt necessary. That was the only way to describe it. she felt she could stay in this room, just being here, for a long, long time.

She understood it wasn't her, exactly, that she was feeling not the ghost of Tom Riddle but the ghost of her other life. It was the crux of his appeal. It was the might have been, might still be. It was his incubus nature, staining her thoughts with his own, his memories, his lost emotions. It was him, wasn't it? Even so, she stayed with him. She allowed him to kiss her, and stir a longing that could not go unanswered.

She allowed him, kissing her, to undress her, to look at her, naked, and in the daze of unfettered desire, she reached up and began to undress Tom. His shirt opened over a long, pale, smooth torso. She watched his body emerge in fascination, angular, perhaps a bit too thin, even if his muscles were sharp, roping his long arms and denting his stomach into form. His mouth was kissing her neck and her shoulders, his hands were dancing up her back and brushing her breasts. When she unclothed the last of him, she was afraid, for a moment, that neither of them would be able to stop, to control themselves, and they would act out the last of their sins. A Tom Riddle, who was real. She looked at Tom's long, thin, beautiful body, and wanted exactly that. But he was in control. He took her into his arms, and kissed her, deeply, and entered her with his fingers. He gasped before she did, and she could see the connection between them in their eyes. Her very pleasure provoked him.

It was so strange, she felt no guilt, no guilt whatsoever, and understood that what she had been done with Draco Malfoy was the result of this growing desire in her. She didn't want to leave, ever. Ron was a mere memory. She was coming closer and closer to what she had been, what she had felt. She watched Tom watching her, and her hands drifted to his chest, fingering the place where his heart must be, drifted down between his legs, and his eyes shivered and darkened, and she could feel it too. She didn't even blink, just held onto Tom's eyes with her own. He didn't blink, either. They watched their connection in each others eyes, felt what they caused, caused what they felt, entered and probed and pulsated, their faces verging nearer each other as they grew closer, and closer, to their last moment.

"Mione," he whispered.

She could see her eyes in his, and they were gold. There was a pain in her chest, her hand was crushed, an uboboros was encircling her, her hand, no longer crushed, held a wand, different, heavier, more powerful, and then she was holding him, just him, and they watched the world in each other's eyes and left it, together, lips meeting at last as the tidal desire between them pulled them with the inevitability of a rip current towards the edge of the world. They dropped over the precipice together.

.((0)).

Julian Avery found Draco lying naked and alone under the covers of a bed that had only a few hours ago been chained to Hermione Granger. He moved forwards immediately and roughly punched him on the shoulder. Draco turned over and looked sleepily into the crackling blue eyes of his friend. "Good morning, Julian," he said, ignoring the angry expression on his friend's face, and then turned to his left. He seemed to realize for the first time that no one was lying next to him in bed. This seemed only to puzzle Draco, though. "Huh," was all he said. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

"You let her escape?" said Julian. "What the _hell_, Draco." He gestured wildly and let out an explosive sigh. "Were you sleeping with that girl?"

"Yes," said Draco, leaning back on his pillows and closing his eyes. "It was glorious."

"Grandmama is going to skin you alive."

"Mrs. Silversmith is going to reward me," said Draco, reaching under his pillow. He brought out a flower, a flower with a black center and alternating black and white petals. Draco opened his eyes, inspected the flower, and offered it to Julian. "Ever hear of an Aperio?"

"No," said Julian, and he took the flower gingerly out of Draco's hands.

"Very useful little flowers. I had no idea they existed until I found a very… interesting, um, article. I was surprised to find that they still existed, in fact, since this article was very… dated, if you will. But they did, and it was possible to procure them."

"So?" asked Julian impatiently, his grasp a bit tighter on the flower than was strictly necessary. "What does it _do_, Draco, that could possibly get you out of this mess?"

Draco grinned. "It gets ahold of secrets, as a seed. Then it grows, overnight, into a flower that tells you all the secrets you might possibly want to know—all you need to do is boil it and drink it to come by the knowledge." He stretched. "All it needs to grow, is sex."

Julian dropped the flower. "Ew."

Draco laughed. "Oh don't be such a prude, Jules. Erotic magic can be very powerful."

Julian sighed. "Well, I suppose you'd better brew that and drink it before grandmamma gets back. Are you going to be able to explain to her how Hermione escaped despite all of the wards we put up?"

"No, no idea,." Draco said easily, standing up and hitching the sheets over his hip so they covered him. He turned again to the bed. "She really can be something," he said, in a slightly wistful way. "Anyway, I'll find out all of Hermione Granger's secrets soon enough. An Aperio isn't particular about its secrets." He clapped a hand onto Julian's shoulder. "Come on, Julian. To the laboratory."

.((0)).

In case you didn't get that, Draco's managed to get his hands on the Rowena Ravenclaw story.


	19. Chapter 19

Author comments: Some of you may have noticed, I've gone completely insane and started to write a Nineteen Years Later fic called Hogwarts: The Next Generation (like as in Star Trek: The Next Generation? Yep, I'm a nerd). It's about all the kids; the parents won't be in it very much, it's fun. Read it! And don't worry, it won't keep me from regular updates of this story.

Rosiline: Thanks! And Draco read about the Aperio flower in Ravenclaw's account and procured it in the usual way of rich and influential people with connections.

Miss-Fleur-Riddle: thankee, I thought so too.

Jkrowlingrox: Why do authors take such pleasure in putting their characters through the blender? I don't know, but I am one of them. Troubled waters ahead.

Blackpants: Yeah, Draco can definitely be clever. I get annoyed when people forget that. Who else could've figured out the cabinets? Also, he's clever enough to use people's underestimation of him to get what he wants.

Sad Stephen: Now that I've batted you over the head with the other chapter, it's time to give you a plot-heavy one.

SailorHecate: Oh, I'm sorry your school is a disaster. I wish I could give you a virtual cookie, but we are not at that stage of technological development yet. Thanks for commenting on the plotty issues. I didn't want to make it all about Hermione fixing everything, that's a bit much. It is ironic, isn't it, that the very thing Hermione thought she was using to get away actually exposed her to Draco et al.

TheCrescentMoonWriter: I delight in torturing my readers, too, so I won't tell you whether good or bad is to come.

LordNemesis: AAAAGH! (Hides from scary reader). C'mon, I wouldn't give you guys two tragedies in a row. Would I? (evil grin)

Blindfaithoperadiva: Thanks much. Things are so much more interesting when you make everybody smart.

.((0)).

Alicia Silversmith regarded Draco for a full ten minutes after he had finished his story. At length, she shook her head slowly and permitted herself the hint of a smile. "Runes and incubuses," she said. "Well, Draco darling, I always knew there was a reason you were my favorite nephew." There was a derisive snort of laughter from Julian. She stared into the distance for a bit. "I should have known he would find a way to survive, even now, after he has died twice—no, three times over, in full." She frowned as she said this, and murmured to herself, "Three. Three, a powerful number, in Arithmancy. If he will live again, that will make three times, and he will gain more power even than he has had before. We cannot allow this to happen. We cannot allow him to incarnate." She nodded firmly, as if agreeing with herself.

Verity Rosier, the last survivor of her own family at the age of thirty, spoke. "It is a priority even over the Faer Land."

Alicia nodded slowly. "Perhaps," she said. "But then, perhaps it is more of a priority even than him. After all, who breaks the boundary first will control it, as Lord Voldemort himself always told us. And if we control it, we will have a formidable weapon in our hands."

"I agree," said Rudolpho LeStrange, who in the years since his wife's death had become, in the absence of fear, competent, efficient, and ruthless. "After all, there is always the danger of the Granger girl breaking it before Draco is able to. And we all know that if she breaks it, she'll populate the world with fully sentient dragons and Giants, not to mention what those beastly centaurs will do if they manage to get outside of the forest. The barrier must be controlled, it must be tailored to our needs. Although once we gain control of it, we should do something to keep her from being so troublesome."

Alicia smiled at him, knowing full well Rudolpho LeStrange was probably more grateful than vengeful in the case of Hermione Granger because he had been so relieved to be rid of his terrifying wife, who would have delivered him to Lord Voldemort at any moment, and who had dragged him with her to Azkaban.

"If I may say," said Draco, breaking in with evident relish at being the holder of so many trump cards, "the incubus won't be a worry for a while. She won't incarnate him because he's such a useful means of escape, as we have seen. I believe they're waiting for the barrier to open to do it, so as Mrs. Silversmith says, we should concentrate on the barrier.

"Isn't there a way of getting rid of incubuses?" asked Julian. "Surely there must be."

A silence around the room showed that no one knew the particulars of it, in any case. "Isn't it a potion?" volunteered Carissa Kinderkindle, who had arrived the other day from France, much to Julian's pleasure.

"I'll just talk to Professor Snape, shall I?" asked Draco.

.((0)).

"Hey, Harry."

"Oh, heya… Ron." Harry looked carefully at his friend. He was chalk-white, he was drunk, and he was shaking. "Merlin. What is it?"

"Many things. Many, many things." He leaned against a chair and took off his jacket. "Exacty how much did you know about?" he asked. "The time travel? The shagging of Lord Voldemort?"

"The dying in my arms," said Harry. This silenced Ron, for a moment. He gave Harry an indescribable look, a tormented look. Why, why couldn't Hermione have just _listened_?

"She died?" Ron whispered.

"You've been to Alicia Silversmith, haven't you?"

He nodded, seating himself gingerly on the chair. "Who killed her?"

"Dumbledore."

Ron blinked a few times, shook his heard, and turned to Harry. "The hell?"

"I think it was Dumbledore. The whole thing. He's the one who kidnapped me. He's the one who sent Hermione back in time, who knows what he did to her back then. Besides poison her, that is. Dulcenecro. It's sweet. That's what she told me. She told me she was going to die, and she told me she was still here."

"Still here?"

"Yeah. See, she came back to an earlier time. To save you. And me. I gather you died. She brought a mortal form of Tom Riddle to be killed, and I killed him. Then Dumbledore killed her." Harry gave Ron a long, measured look. "Then I killed Dumbledore."

Ron started to say something, then simply gaped.

"I didn't know about—you know. Lord Voldemort. Not until Alicia Silversmith told me. And, Ron, I don't know enough about it. Who knows why it happened, maybe he'd been possessing her, maybe…"

Ron shook his head. "No, that's—and Malfoy."

"Malfoy?!" Harry practically shouted.

"Yeah, Malfoy. He kissed her right in front of me."

"What? What do you mean? What did she do?"

Ron paused before answering. "If I'm honest with myself, she seemed pretty surprised."

"That bugger, I swear we ought to track him down and—"

"We should, actually. I've been looking over Draco Malfoy's wand records over the past few days, and those of his friends, those of Alicia Silversmith's. Something suspicious is going on. I could feel it, when I was talking to Alicia Silversmith. She _hates_ Hermione. I'm sure she'll do something, and she's thick with the Malfoys."

"Do you think it's all—" Harry frowned, and looked up. "Oh, hell."

Ron's heart sank. "What?" he asked hoarsely.

Harry shook his head, a look of dawning horror growing in his eyes. "I just thought it was because she didn't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I was convinced nothing was happening, that it only appeared to be happening because you didn't know what happened. Hermione found those books, and Ginny found the second version of the diary, but it was obviously just clues to what Hermione had done. I didn't think anything was happening."

Ron stood. "But there is."

Harry let out a breath. "There might be."

"No, there is. Call Kingsley Shacklebolt. We've got to find Hermione, and Malfoy—I think we've got jurisdiction for veritaserum use—if we can find one of their friends, I bet we could get the story out of them."

"Ron, you know we'll never be allowed to use veritaserum on your suspicions alone."

"They've been casting a lot of dark spells among themselves."

"Like what?"

"Necrologo."

"What does that one do?" asked Harry.

"It's to make the dead talk. No spell starting with 'necro' is a good one, and necrologo wasn't the only one I saw. There were some, like, Russian-seeming spells as well that looked suspicious, so I brought them over to Seamus."

"What the hell are they trying to do?"

"I'm not sure, but the spells they've been using the most have been the most advanced warding I know, and quite a bit of warding that I don't know. Whatever they're trying to do, you can be sure it'll involve locking people up somewhere or keeping them out of somewhere."

"Or both," replied Harry, reaching for his coat. "Let's go, then," he said. He pulled his wand for a moment, grew a distant look in his eyes, and produced his stag Patronus. Ron looked at it admiringly before it sprang off on it's way to the Ministry to alert Kingsley Shacklebolt of their activities.

.((0)).

When Hermione came to herself she was in her office at St. Mungo's. She looked around quickly and sighed in relief that no one was there. Well, it was past working hours. The sky was darkening outside of the windows. She stood up and yawned. She felt as though she'd had a strange dream that she couldn't quite remember—a dream of things to come.

The rune. How had it even come into her head at all? But it was there. Closing her eyes, she could even remember exactly what it looked like, every arc and line. It made sense: she could see the magic transcribed within the rune's form, and knew it would work. Padma had succeeded brilliantly. Hermione went over to her desk and extracted the sheet of paper. Padma had made copies, but Hermione found the original easily. It was the more potent than any of its simulacrums.

"Come to me, Salazar Slytherin," she murmured to herself in a voice that sounded alien to her own ears. The voice of a woman who was not a person, who had lived centuries upon centuries ago and who had perhaps never died. Her mouth began to form sounds as if of their own volition. She could see the vowels denoted by the spokes of the mandala, knew what precedence to give each of the consonants, pronounced each dipthong precisely—but it wasn't down to her knowledge of runes. She was being guided—by something.

And was it just her, or could she suddenly see particles gathering in the air? Dark, but glowing, dark matter, star-filled holes, fixed in a spiral that copied what was written on the paper before her. Her hand raised itself, fingertips moving closer to the assembly of matter. It came towards her, sensing in her blood its former mate. She understood this, as it drifted towards her. No one but she could have undid Salazar Slytherin's chains. Only a descendant of his murderer could. Only someone the Night-bringer would consider. The dark rider had released his prisoner at her request. She knew this too. She understood, finally, what it meant to be descended from an inhuman. A little part of her was inhuman, too, was recognized by forces that turned a blind eye to the merely mortal.

Salazar Slytherin's ashes affixed themselves to the mandala, forming a solid-formed depiction of the rune. It grew denser and thicker, eating away at the paper, turning into a substance very much like metal. Hermione watched it; when it had finished, a black fire burst from it, destroying the paper of the mandala. She ignored this, and it did not touch the hand that held the mandala. Hermione looked at it, and turned it back and forth under the light. The sky outside was black, now.

"Thank you, godfather," she whispered to it. She pointed her wand at the solid rune and encased it in a magical blue film. "Not a particle of you will stay beyond the boundary," she said to it.

She looked up as she said it, sensing movement behind her. She turned. Behind her, dressed in a gold-filegrees set of robes, was Alicia Silversmith. "I rather like the idea of a resurrected Slytherin," she said. "Although that was never my greatest goal."

Hermione took a step back. Her wand was raised; Alicia's was not. "What do you want?"

"Many things," she answered simply. "Your death, for one. The termination of Tom Riddle's ghost, for another." She stepped towards her and offered her an icy smile. She was still beautiful, stranger and paler than she had ever been, more of an idea than a substance. "But those are little things, accomplished easily enough. What I want," she said, raising her cold, cold eyes to Hermione, "is what I had. What no one had any right to take from me. I will bring back my dead, but I will suffer no consequences. When the boundary is breaks, I will break it, so that it tendered to my will."

Hermione expelled a breath, still clutching the mandala. "How do you know?"

Alicia raised her eyebrows. "About Tom Riddle, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what an Aperio is? Oh, how silly of me to ask. Of course you know what it is. Rowena Ravenclaw wrote about it in her account of her life, which I know you've read."

"Draco," said Hermione.

"Indeed."

Hermione looked up at Alicia. Their discussion was over. She couldn't be allowed to disrupt Hermione's plans—and she would have her dead back, but Hermione couldn't allow this to interfere with what she needed to bring about.

Before she could register it, a light was drifting towards her, and before she could respond, it had enclosed her, locked her to it—an Imperius.

"Do you know what I've discovered truly wins the day in a duel? Not power, not skill. These are helpful. But in a duel, the person who wins is the person who casts the spell the fastest. I have learned this, in my years of avoiding Lord Voldemort." Alicia looked at Hermione in a satisfied way. "Silly girl, you thought you could break anything of mine, didn't you? It is amazing how strong you learn to make your curses when fighting an adversary like Lord Voldemort—and I have you to thank for that." Alicia took the mandala from Hermione's senseless grasp. "You will not sleep. You will stand here and wait for me to open the way to the Faer land. You will wait for me to destroy Lord Voldemort's last image. You will wait for me to come back to you, and do as I will."


	20. Chapter 20

Oh my Jesus God McAllah, that was tough as hell to write. I totally pillaged Stars for the ending bit. Okay, everyone that has had their knives ready, it is time to put them down. I'm pretty sure that there's only one more chapter to go. It might take some time because it's going to be a very long chapter—and yeah, there's a third part to this story. Yep. I WILL NEVER FINISH WRITING THIS. Cue evil laugh.

Rosiline—don't worry, I'm just glad that you take the time to review each week. That alone warms the cockles of my heart.

Blackpants—The suspense will reach it's boiling point here.

Blindfaithoperadiva—I myself love her, if only for her competent way of screwing things up for Hermione.

Jkrowlingrox—it is my raison d'etre.

SailorHecate—Why, thank you. I do tend to feel weird writing OC's. Like, I write regular fiction so obviously I come up with characters that I'm perfectly happy with, but most OCs fail because they just don't jibe with the rest of the characters. I've actually repressed the impulse more often than not and have given Alicia a lot less screentime than I'm tempted to because she's an OC.

Tommygirl—actually, Draco can break the boundary. Remember what the Blue King said? You can only get inside if you're one of the ones who can break it. We'll just see who does in the next chapter.

Sad Stephen—The Ministry is a fascist bureaucracy. According to me.

TheCrescentMoonWriter—why thank you. I think so, too. And honestly, if I'm watching a movie and I KNOW the main character isn't going to die, I get annoyed when they try to build the suspense. But since you guys know I like to kill fictional people, it's pretty no-holds-barred.

Marisa1—thank you. Sigh. I will start it this week, I tell myself.

Miss-Fleur-Riddle—Well, you'll see.

.((0)).

Hermione had never felt calmer or more at peace. Finally, the struggle was gone. The magical creatures, the boundary, Tom Riddle, Draco, Ron… None of it mattered any more. She had found her peace.

"Imperius," an inner voice whispered. "It's an Imperius."

It was an Imperius, wasn't it? Quite a strong one, too, not like the ones she had fought off in the DA. This was so nice, so peaceful. It gave her everything she had ever wanted.

But it had not taken her native intelligence from her. "It's an Imperius. If you don't fight it, people will die, and the Imperius will end, and you will know again how much they matter." The voice was right. She wished it weren't. It would be so nice to just rest in this chair, thinking of nothing, utterly satisfied. This must have been how the Buddha felt.

"It will end no matter what, and if you are not the one who breaks the spell, you will regret it." Hermione would have sighed if her body was under her control. But it wasn't. The voice was right. She knew she had to listen to it. She knew she didn't really want to be sitting here, staring at a wall. She knew people were in danger. And she knew Alicia knew everything. Draco did, too. Even now, they'd be making the potion.

"Move," she told herself. She twitched her toes. Her eyes flickered down to them. Move, move, move. She began to raise her leg, bend her knee. She sighed in relief. Thank goodness Alicia Silversmith had decided not to stay here and maintain her Imperius. Hermione knew she'd be able to break it.

It was nice to sit down. Calm, peaceful. There was nothing to worry about. She was worrying too much, as always. After all, everyone she loved was just a mote of dust in the universe. What did it matter when they died? They would, no matter what.

"It's an Imperius," an inner voice whispered, but it was so quiet she barely heard it. "An Imperius in an imperius in an imperius. She's layered them. You have to fight through." Through, Hermione agreed. Through and through and through and through. Sitting here was so nice. She had never felt calmer or more at peace.

.((0)).

Draco and Rudolpho LeStrange strolled through the LeStrange Estate on their way to Rudolpho's private farm. He bred Unicorns, Pegasuses, Griffins, and Thestralsand had assured Draco that he could get at least one of the unicorns to donate its blood. It was amazing how easy it was to destroy the ghost of Tom Riddle. Certainly it was easier than it had been to get the potion he was looking for out of Snape. Professor Snape was suspicious—more so than usual. He'd had an encounter with Ron Weaseley which had left him thoroughly confused, and he'd obviously intuited the presence of an incubus, and he remembered finding Hermione Granger's bones. He would be daft not to be suspicious, and he wouldn't give Draco the recipe until Draco gave him the story behind it. Draco finally had to cave and tell him at least about Tom Riddle's ghost. Professor Snape had known there must be more to it, and it was all Draco could do to escape telling him about the Faer Land.

Draco felt better about destroying Tom Riddle's ghost than he'd felt about the rest of this business. He was afraid of the Faer Land. There were stories about the Faer Land passed down through the oldest families, and they were used to frighten children. Just the lack of control he'd been sure was there. It would be so easy to lose yourself. He had never been sure Alicia Silversmith would be able to control it.

But he knew Lord Voldemort was a threat, whatever form he took, even if he was just a ghost. Only, he wasn't just ghost, because he could incarnate at any time—any time _Hermione_ pleased. Draco didn't like to think about his and Hermione's alliance. He would never have gotten so close to her if he'd known how closely Tom Riddle was lurking behind her. He had more to fear from him than ever, and Draco was more afraid of Lord Voldemort than anything in this world. In third year, when he'd been doing boggarts with Professor Lupin, his boggart had started to turn into Lord Voldemort, but Professor Lupin had banished the boggart before it got a chance to fully manifest itself. Draco hadn't been grateful. He'd kind of hated him for it, protecting him. Even though he would have died if the Slytherins knew.

The sooner Lord Voldemort was dead, the better. He expressed this to Rudolpho LeStrange, who quietly agreed. Rudolpho had never been one to show much in the way of emotion. He seemed to have survived his marriage by being still and quiet. But once the distraction of Auntie Bellatrix had gone, with her excessiveness and wildness, Rudolpho emerged. He had built a commercial empire in the time after his release from Azkaban, making the LeStranges the wealthiest wizarding family in Britain. And he seemed to know how to get anything—he had provided the lead on the Aperio flower Draco had asked for. And he had his own stocks of obscure potions ingredients. Draco hadn't thought twice about where to get the unicorn blood from. Two of them stood by the wooden gates of their enclosure. It was like they were waiting for them.

It was so easy. He already had Tom Riddle's bones—or, one of them. His finger, to be exact. That was all that was required to make the potion, and it was much more transportable than the corpse entire. Draco could make the potion on the LeStrange Estate, which he planned to do. The sooner, the better. After all, it was quite possible that Hermione might be able to escape from Alicia Silversmith.

"Do you have a particular one in mind, Rudolpho?" Draco had stopped calling him Mr. LeStrange upon graduation from Hogwarts. It had been a slightly risky decision; Rudolpho might not like the lack of respect. But he saw that Draco was making a stand. He was no longer a boy. He had the Dark Mark and had suffered with the rest of them, had even been brave. The boy deserved to call him by his first name.

"There is Widdershins. She is young and easily persuaded by apples."

Rudolpho opened the brass gate to the Unicorn enclosure, which was filled with trees and brooks. He whistled, and a unicorn emerged from behind a large oak tree. She had a faint cast of gold about her, not quite grown into adulthood. She had large, liquid eyes, which she blinked at them.

Rudolpho extended an apple. "Here, girl," he said. "Come along."

The unicorn eagerly cantered over to Rudolpho, her inkdrop eyes focused on the apple in his hand. He held it aloft as she came to it. She whinnied questioningly as he held it to high for her to reach.

"There, girl. This time the apple has a price. My friend needs a bit of your blood."

The unicorn turned to Draco, blinked twice, and then ducked her head in something quite like a nod. Rudolpho held the apple to Draco, and he held it out to the unicorn to eat, which she did eagerly. Rudolpho took a knife from his cloak that he used precisely for suck purposes. It had ritual engravings and a point so sharp that it was quite, quite painless. When he made the cut, Widdershins barely noticed, shaking her head as if to rid herself of a fly. Rudolpho quickly collected a few drops of her blood and healed the wound with a spell.

Now they had everything. They left the unicorn enclosure and headed towards the Estate. They didn't know that Ron Weasely and Harry Potter were waiting there for them.

.((0)).

Terry didn't particularly feel like going into the Impcap Wing after an interminable day at the Ministry. One of the more recalcitrant brains had been trying to attack him all day, and as many protocols and protections as there were in the Department of Mysteries, they were brains after all, and were very good at thinking of ways around them.

However, this Faer Land business was monstrously exciting. He knew that Padma had reservations about the way Hermione was going about things—she wanted to go to the Ministry very badly with at least some information—Ravenclaw's account of her life, and the fact of the boundary. Terry, however, stood rather staunchly with Harry in his estimation of the Ministry. The Unspeakables were the best of the Ministerial Lot, but even they were fascist and bureaucratic. You didn't go to the Ministry to expose secrets—you went to the Ministry to have a lock and key put on them, and to ensure that Ministry surveillance for the rest of your natural life.

Personally, Terry liked the way Hermione was going about it. It was a bit like how he'd thought it must have been to be part of the Hogwarts Trio. It was exciting, to know things no one else knew, to be part of the solutions. It was why he'd gone into the Department of Mysteries in the first place.

So even though Terry would like to have gone back to his flat and nursed his ounds along with a firewhisky, he flooed over from the Ministry and headed straight for the Impcap Wing. Where Hermione sat in the office, staring at the wall. Terry knew immediately that something was wrong. When she didn't respond to him, he kneeled down and had a look at her eyes. And Imperius.

It was tricky work finiting other people's spells. And if Hermione hadn't thrown it off on her own by now, t must be a strong Imperius. Terry moved his wand in front of her eyes and murmured, feeling the tension of the spell and pulling his wand away from it, attempting to break it. The spell _was_ strong. It was stronger than any he had encountered. But it was breakable. Terry managed to finite it after a few more passes.

Hermione's eyes cleared. She looked at Terry for a moment, and then gasped like someone surfacing from water. "Terry there's another—" and then her eyes went blank again, sleepy and blank. Terry frowned, and decided to examine the spell with a Revelio.

It wasn't a series of spells. It was a good thing he figured that much else, or he would be endlessly finiting the spell. No, it was a feedback loop. Once one spell was broken, the other would take over, and the first would heal itself, ready to take over once the second was broken. Clever, very clever. Terry concentrated and passed his wand in front of her face again, felt both of the Imperiuses. The one he had broken was already halfway repaired. Terry forced the spells closer together, turned them one after the other until they were a braid. Then he pulled his wand out, stretching, stretching—until, sweating and with a great effort, he managed to break the both of them.

Hermione scrabbled away from the chair, as though the chair had been her prison. "Terry—Terry, oh Merlin thank you." She stood, shook her head, grabbed him, pulled him roughly forward, and kissed him on the cheek. "Everything might have gone wrong if not for you, of all the luck—" her eyes darted around the room. "Terry, listen to me. I know this doesn't make any sense, but you have to knock me out."

"You're right, Hermione, this doesn't make any sense."

"There's no time, Terry. _Trust me_. Stupefy me."

"Hermione—"

"Now, Terry," she said sternly.

He frowned at her, shook his head, and raised his wand. "You owe me a hell of a story when you wake up." She didn't bother telling him she probably wouldn't be there when she did wake up. "Stupefy," said Terry.

Hermione fell to the floor, but before she even hit it, she was gone.

.((0)).

"All right, Malfoy, start at the beginning." Rudolpho lay stunned just outside his doorstep. Ron and Harry had invited themselves into his Estate and made use of his chair to set up and impromptu interrogation.

Draco looked impassively up at Ron. "You mean when I shagged your girlfriend, or when Lord Voldemort shagged her?"

SMACK.

Ron looked around at Harry in surprise. "I thought you were going to leave the punching to me?"

Harry shrugged. "Sorry. Couldn't be helped."

"I understand. I still get to punch him, right?"

"I don't see why not."

Ron grinned, drew back his fist, and let it swing forward—he stopped a centimeter away from Draco's face. Draco blinked and stared at the fist. Then he turned and was staring into Ron's eyes. "Listen, you git, I'm not going to play this with you. I know all about the time travel, and the Tom Riddle, and the you. And you know what? It doesn't matter, because I've been looking over your wand activity for the past few days, and I've got this funny feeling that you're going to do something. And all this? Will not distract me. I can't account for Harry, of course." Then he took a bottle from his jeans pocket, unstoppered it, and forced Draco's mouth open.

"Ow- wha—blrrg," Draco spluttered as Ron mercilessly poured the Veritaserum down his throat.

"What are you planning to do?"

"Break the boundary," said Draco immediately. "Fuck. Listen, you don't want to ask about that. You want to ask about the ghost."

"What ghost?"

"Tom Riddle's sodding ghost!" said Draco. "He's an incubus, and he's already helped her—it's them you should be worried about, they will break the boundary—"

"If that's what you want, why did you try to kidnap Hermione?"

"What? How did you know?"

"I'm an Auror, Draco, I've learned to put two and two together over the years, funnily enough."

"Did you not hear me say that Tom Riddle is an incubus?"

"Did you not hear me say that I won't let you distract me?"

"No, you don't understand. They're working _together_. She can help him _incarnate._"

"Answer my question. Why are you working against Hermione?"

"Whoever breaks the boundary controls it. Listen, there's a potion, I was just—"

"Oh, shut it. So you want to control the boundary. OK, that makes sense, just your run-of-the-mill elitist jockeying. How are you planning to break it on your own, then?"

"Alicia has the rune."

"What rune?"

"The rune with Slytherin's body attached to it—there's a sodding _potion_ to be made here."

"Why do you need Slytherin's body to break the boundary?"

"He's the one who created the boundary in the first place. If you bring him over the border into the Faer Land, the boundary is broken. But, more importantly, Tom Riddle is an incubus, and your girlfriend will have _sex_ with him and _incarnate_ if we don't make the _potion_ that can _destroy _him."

"Yeah, we'll be sorting out our own priorities, thanks," said Ron. "And the way I figure it, all else being even, Hermione saved me and Harry's lives, and we owe her one."

.((0)).

She didn't have to open her eyes this time—they were already open. The transition was abrupt, and she was reeling. Her head spun as she pushed herself up on the bed and turned to face Tom.

"What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "They know."

He expelled a breath and clutched at the blankets, his knuckles white.

"It's time, Tom."

He looked at her. He smiled, slightly. "I thought it would be her," he said.

"It is her," she said. "You've been making me into her."

"No," he said.

"You know the nature of incubate," she said. "This darkness, these urges, the secrecy—I haven't been myself, Tom. I've been more and more like Mione. And it's time for me to have my freedom, too."

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. His lips gave way under hers And then his lips were on hers, searing with heat in distinction from the coolness of his palm. His long, girlish eyelashes fluttered against her cheek. The light is golden, and warm, and it coats everything, like syrup_._ Her life was locked away in a tower fifty years away, and he brought her closer, unbuttoning her shirt, she was saying goodbye, she told him her name, her real name, his eyes were red, they were bleeding. Her shirt parted around her shoulders and fell. He let him push her skirt down and his mouth was near her mouth, and then Hermione knew she was lost. Goodbye. They were all in a tower and now that she had the key and could unlock them she couldn't have them back. Her father, her mother—and she might have died, too, that night. That one think that linked them, Mione, Hermione, that first death—her own. The death of her innocence. He pressed his lips so they slipped against hers, and she sighed against him, suspended her body against his, everything suspended—Tom, his mother, his father (I imagine it must have been an extended and realistic nightmare to him). She opened her eyes on their hands, one over the other, so human, so much a thing that had been repeated over and over. Not evil yet—and her hand was crushed and there was an arrow through her heart. She tried to catch her breath, opened her eyes, and his too were flickering and confused, staring into her own—were they gold?

"Mione," he said, his voice throaty and deep—flesh becoming flesh. He was naked, stark white, his skin cool. Merlin, he was such a beautiful boy.

"Do you remember what you said, in that room? That you were mine?"

"That I was yours."

He kissed her again, slipped his tongue between her lips, and at the same moment, entered her. Her eyes fluttered, not knowing whether to open or close. His eyes were dark and hooded, they were looking at her like she was a door to be unlocked, a secret he wanted at all costs.

"I can feel you, now," she said, spiraling a leg around his, drawing him closer, pushing him back.

"You were right," he said. "I can feel it, you." He pressed his lips against her neck and she sighed. He grasped her thigh and pulled her against him, again, following the waves of sensation, and her eyes blinked—more golden than before. Even her skin, even her hair, was gold-lit. He held her face as he held her body, and they watched each other, feeding off the nearly naked emotions on their faces, almost free, nearly unchained from their worldly posts. Hermione pressed her face into his neck. It smelled like books and smoke and skin.

His skin was pressed so close to hers she couldn't tell where hers stopped and where his began. And she wanted to be closer, still, was wrapped around him as he thrusted into her, deeper inside until she was lending him her own skin, he own body, her own flesh, and she could feel it happening, the transformation, his skin so warm, too warm.

A muted light fell onto his face as his eyes locked with hers. A cry half-strangled in Tom's throat and Hermione's face heated with his breath, and she lost her breath, grasped at it as it left her, carrying her up, against Tom again and up, lifting her halfway out of her body and then she made a suffocated noise, felt a pleasure keen enough to make her cry. Tom tangled his mouth in hers, and the heat was mounting and growing between them.

Where they met a light blossomed that was light and dark and the passion in between.

They were still, in the light. They watched each other. Hermione was verging as close as possible to who she might have been, who she was not now, her eyes flickering gold, half-lidded and half dreaming.

They withdrew from each other. Tentatively, Hermione lifted her hand, breaking contact completely—and he remained. And as the contract broke, she uncleaved from herself, dwindled back into herself. She felt small and shamed and confused. Still, she knew what she must do, what must happen. She would have to think about the rest later.

"We did it," she whispered, and realized that for her whole life, she hadn't been living up to even half of what she might be.


	21. Chapter 21

OK guys, so… Last chapter. I know. There is a sequel, but I can't promise that I will update it with the regularity that I've been updating this one with. I'm getting a bit more into my other fic… it's new meat, that one. But I will at least update the first chaps pretty soon so you're not dangling off some of the cliffs I've left. Anyways, thanks so much for sticking around and reviewing and all, I hope you've enjoyed everything.

Jeanne: Oh, thanks so much for your long and insightful reviews. My favorite kind! I'm glad you like Draco, he's been an interesting character to write. Funnily enough, I'm not the biggest Dr/Hr shipper, but he's a bit more human than the rest, which has been the fun of writing him. And yes, they all do want the world power. Draco naturally gravitated towards Alicia's machinations because he's a political animal by nature. As for Alicia, I think what she saw was that Lord Voldemort had tried to find the Faer Land once, and someone could do it again, so she wants in on it before it gets into the wrong hands.

Yeah, I like magic. Pity that whenever writers use it now there's the Harry Potter association. It's part of trying to be canonical (even though I disregard the last two books), and also it's just fun.

Just so you know, Hermione didn't transform into Mione. The influence that Tom had over her in incubus form meant that she was very persuaded, and that Mione was kind of starting to take over who Hermione was—which she hadn't realized. When they, um, incarnated Tom, she did fully become Mione for a moment, but once it was over Hermione was free of all Mione's influence. But now she remembers everything that happened to Mione.

Yeah, Tom had been really limited by being a ghost. And his interactions with Hermione are much different because of his influence as an incubus. They're not really quite on even footing so much as he and Mione were. As for Alicia and Tom—they both kind of get what they want.

Sad Stephen—Oh, very hairy. You'll see.

Miss-Fleur-Riddle—sorry it took a little while.

Rosiline—thanks!

The Crescent Moon Writer—thank you as well, hope you love this one.

Blindfaithoperadiva—why thank you. Veritaserum is interesting to me. JKR seems to use it as what you're talking about, but I like the idea of trying to get around telling the truth by telling it as partially as possible. Oh, yeah, and glad you like the bit with Terry. I eant to use him more in this fic. Hopefully I'll be able to, since he does after all work in the Department of Mysteries.

Blackpants—this review made me change my mind and decide to have her do something awesome and nefarious. Not in this last chapter, but in the first chapter of the sequel.

Ankoku Dezaia—Yeah, and hopefully I can bring back Tom Tom instead of the very curtailed Tom Riddle of this fic.

SailorHecate—humor was what I was kind of going for there. Draco's funny. Thank Merlin for that guy. And glad you like the scene at the end!

The End

ring around the rosies

pockets full of posies

ashes

ashes

we all fall down.

.((0)).

Hermione and Tom stood in the Forbidden Forest. Around them, the Forest was unusually quiet. Not even a leaf rustled, and the air lay around them thick and still—like cold soup.

"This is where you saved me," said Hermione softly. It was so strange—she remembered everything now, but it was no longer a part of her. She understood herself now, understood the mounting pressure, the impossible mission, and the ambiguity of Tom's nature. But it wasn't what she had done; it was another life. For the first time since she had discovered what had happened, she didn't feel responsible for it.

"Yes," he replied. Her eyes were no longer golden. "I'll need a wand," he said. "But there may not be time. We should do a locator spell on Alicia Silversmith."

"Your grave," suggested Hermione.

"Ah," he said.

"It's looking like a better option than Ollivander's."

"It is," he agreed.

Hermione eyed the ground. A whisper of voices—four voices, all long dead. She might have finally disconnected herself from her other self, but it seemed she had gained some of her abilities.

"Shall we?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Hermione gave him a faint smile and took it—his hand was smooth and cold. They turned on the spot together and disapparated with a crack.

.((0)).

This was absolutely ridiculous. Draco knew that Gryffindors were certifiable, but this was championship thickheadedness. How on earth could Harry and Ron, knowing and having no reason to disbelief that Tom Riddle was indeed in incubus form, completely ignore the threat of his incarnation? Did they honestly think Hermione wouldn't do it? That was possible. He himself hadn't known, really, what she was capable of. Hadn't known her to be capable of looking him straight in the eyes and baiting him with sex—a shame Ron insisted on turning a deaf ear to that. He just couldn't understand their response—they had always been easy enough to anger before. He also remembered them being very against Lord Voldemort existing, in whatever form he took.

Harry was levitating Rodolphus's unconscious form; Ron was keeping an eye on Draco. A close eye. "Let's take them back to the Ministry and we can put together a team to round up the others," said Ron.

That would be difficult. All the members of the New Order were in the same room that they had kept Hermione in during her kidnapping. It was lucky Ron hadn't thought to ask him anything along those lines. Silversmith Manse may not be the Ministry or Hogwarts, but it would prove difficult to open to even the best Auror.

Draco sighed. At the very least, Alicia would be successful. Even if Tom Riddle was going to incarnate, at least the boundary would be theirs—although his doubts on that account had not dwindled. Still, Alicia Silversmith did everything he'd ever heard her say she would do, and she was the shrewdest person he'd ever known.

The ultimate reason behind Harry and Ron's response to the problem at hand was Ginny. She'd come home from her talk with Ron, cheerfully drunk, and had asked Harry once again to tell her what had happened the night Dumbledore died. She'd asked the question jokingly, not expecting him to answer. But he had.

Somehow, Ginny had guessed right—she thought Tom Riddle had "survived" in the form of an incubus, although Harry and Ron didn't really know until Draco mentioned it. It was weird, the insight Ginny had into Lord Voldemort's mind. In a way, she knew him even better than Harry. She understood how his mind worked. And she remembered what Hermione had said, the dreamlike quality, the kissing, and remembered Lord Voldemort's obsession with immortality, his penchant for manipulation—and the persuasion of an incubus was a profound thing. When Harry had reluctantly disclosed the other Hermione's affair with Lord Voldemort, the last puzzle piece fell into place, and she knew, she just _knew_, that the cause of Hermione's experiences was an incubus.

"It makes _sense_, Harry. I know about incubuses—it's a great topic among teenage girls. There's as many torrid romances as ghost stories. I remember this one, about a girl who dreamed of a disgusting man with a birthmark on his face. And then one night, at a ball, she turned around, and he was there."

"Merlin, if that's it," Harry had said to her. "Bad enough for the other Hermione to have done it, but my Hermione—"

"She's not yours, Harry. She belongs to herself. And you can't blame her for an alternate life—she didn't make any of those choices. Besides, if I'm right, Ron is going to have some difficult things to face. If Tom Riddle is an incubus, there's no telling what kind of a hold he has over her by now. And the only way to free herself of him is to incarnate him or destroy him."

"Well," said Harry, blinking. "Um, what do you mean incarnate him?"

"Resurrect him, basically. Which is done by, um, shagging."

"Oh." A short but still colossal silence followed. "Surely—she'll destroy him. It's Hermione, she couldn't possibly—"

"Did you miss the part where I said he's got a hold on her? It's part and parcel of being an incubus."

Harry sighed suddenly. "Maybe we shouldn't—there's no way to know if your incubus theory is correct."

"It fits, Harry," said Ginny. "So unless you've got a better explanation, we ought to prepare for a potentially ugly situation. And I'm honestly not sure we should even tell Ron. He was just moaning about Hermione cheating on him when obviously Draco Malfoy was pulling a stunt."

"Hmm," said Harry. "Now that I've stopped having secrets, I'd rather like to stay honest. All this—it's better to tell each other everything so we can find out what's going on."

Ginny gave him an exasperated but loving smile. "If only you had lived with that shining example of common sense all these years."

"Hey, you were just telling me that we oughtn't tell Ron. Couldn't you see why I had to keep it from them? It certainly hasn't done Hermione any good."

"I understand all that, but you could have told _me_. That's what I'm here for. Just think of me as a pillow for you to rest on every once in a while. Just because you had seven years of carrying the world on your shoulders doesn't mean it's a permanent obligation."

Harry smiled fondly at her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Why didn't I notice you earlier?"

"There was that whole inability to talk thing I had."

"Oh, yes."

"But you were my knight in shining armor."

"I guess I was."

"Always were," said Ginny, and settled her lips onto his.

Harry and Ron had spent the journey to the LeStrange Estate exchanging stories. Harry had never looked into Alicia's Pensieve, and he hadn't read Ravenclaw's book. Ron hadn't yet, either, but he'd written to Terry to ask for a quick summary. Harry had told Ron about Ginny's theory. Ron had been silent, and red for a long time. This didn't surprise Harry. What surprised him was what he said.

"We'll have to leave this to her," said Ron, his voice thick.

"Why?" asked Harry.

Ron shook his head. "Incubuses… they can be very dangerous. They can force incarnation. They can kill the person they're haunting, and use their dead body to incarnate."

"How did I miss out on all these incubus ghost stories?"

"Be glad you have. Hermione's either going to destroy him, or incarnate him. If she's going to destroy him, we can't interfere—if we do, it might warn him, and he might hurt her. If she—" and here the thought became too much, if only briefly—"if she incarnates him… Well, she'll be safe. If he's—if they—I don't think he'll hurt her, if she doesn't try to hurt him."

"We don't know," stressed Harry.

"It's a good guess. It explains everything."

And now they knew. Ron, for his part, was in temporary denial. He refused to acknowledge any of it. The fifty-year-old affair with Tom Riddle, the threat of his incubus, the fact that his girlfriend, who had never been with anyone but him, who he'd been perfectly sure of spending the rest of his life with, had slept with Draco sodding Malfoy. It was much better to pretend that none of it had actually happened. This was all hypothetical, a brain teaser that he would have to solve by listening carefully and not mucking up. That's what Ron Weasely told himself as they headed towards the Ministry.

.((0)).

Tom stood in the moonlight, in front of his grave. He had new bones now, no need of his absent flesh, and he had his wand. A pale green light emerged from the tip, growing in brightness as it grew in length. It extended and reached up into the air, a slender diamond-shaped head emerging, slitted eyes and smiling mouth and fangs—a snake, its smoky tongue lolling out, tasting the air. The figure rose into the air until it was twice Tom's length. It left his wand and capered about—it wasn't a Patronus, another kind of figment, excellently cast—Hermione wasn't exactly sure what it was. Tom's eyes were closed, his satisfaction profound.

Hermione didn't want to interrupt him and decided to perform a location spell on Alicia. Her method was characteristically clever. Hermione had a portable GPS system that could tag wand signatures. She didn't have the signature of Alicia's wand, but since Alicia had cast the Imperius on her, it was easy enough to arithmantically divine the signature. She performed a quick self-diagnosis of the vectors of Alicia's Imperius and wrote it into Pearl's Transformation on the air. Tom's eyes were half lidded as she scrawled through the equation with her fire-tipped wand. After finding the wand signature, Hermione typed it into the keyboard of the GPS system. It was then put through an arithmentic function she'd programmed into it that would convert it into coordinates. Now Tom was peering at her, although still standing, his wand clasped in both hands. He looked tall, his head cresting the top of his tombstone, moonlight spilling through his black hair.

"What on earth are you doing? What is that box?"

It was a moment before Hermione registered that he was probably entirely ignorant of computers. Their genotype had been in his time, was made during his time. But why would he know about an aristocratic lady mathematician and another mathematician whose name rhymed with Cabbage? They'd just made a counting machine. And he didn't care about the machinery of the muggle war. She remembered the night they had been trapped in the bomb shelter—not her, Hermione reminded herself, but her other self. He thought of muggle weapons as toys. Of course he wouldn't care about silly codes, boy's games. So he didn't anticipate computers. It was possible that computers had remained entirely beyond the periphery of Lord Voldemort's life as well. It was so stupid. They were so much more efficient than anything wizards had managed to invent. Computers, cell phones, ipods. Once Hermione immunized technology, it came into vogue in the wizarding world. And Hermione had always thought muggles had a much more culturally rich heritage. Magicians had most anything they wanted at their fingertips, and were content. Muggles struggled with a world over which they had little control. And their hopes and hates and loves shone through their art like an explosion. Then she remembered Tom saying, in another life, that muggle art was pathetic.

She sighed. How to begin to explain it? "It's called a Global Positioning System . It's a computer… thing. It's a map you can zoom in and out on, and it's finding Alicia's wand now. I magically bound it to a wand-specific locator spell."

"Clever, as usual. It looks complicated."

"It is," she assured him. "But I don't think I'm so clever. Alicia's in Mabon. In the Forest. Near the Boundary. Now."

His eyes flickered only for a moment. "I know the way. I remember you being there."

"I remember, too. When I was standing there, at that intersection, looking down the way. I could tell something was strange." She closed her eyes and held out her hand. He took it. They turned together on the spot and then they disappeared.

.((0)).

As much as things weren't currently going his way, Draco regained much of his confidence upon entering the Ministry. Potty and the Weasel may be Aurors, but the Ministry was ultimately Draco's playing ground, just as it had been his father's. So he sat comfortably down across from Kingsley Shacklebolt and waited for Harry and Ron to recount what they had learned from Draco. When they had finished, Draco asked for privacy. It didn't matter if Harry and Ron objected; it was his right by status.

Draco looked at Shacklebolt for a long moment. He knew the man didn't like him, not that that ever mattered. It was politics. Dislike did not provide immunity from manipulation and persuasion. Draco spread his hands. "I admit that I and my… friends have been pursuing this particular project. But, honestly, what does it matter to _you_ or the Auror Department whether or not we want to re-open this boundary?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt gave Draco a weary look. "You know perfectly well what my interest would be. First, that this 'project' of yours is associated with your former activities as a Death Eater—immunity or not, Mr. Malfoy, it is not something that I plan to forget. Furthermore, Ms. Patil over at St. Mungo's has sent me a very interesting document which seems to be proof that the boundary was established by Salazar Slytherin in the first place." He folded his hands together. "I cannot allow this project to continue until my Department has analyzed it."

"Does the Ministry have any policy regarding the Faer Land?"

"Currently, no. Of course not. We haven't been aware of it as a reality. But I guarantee you that it will be a matter of weeks that we will have a policy regarding the Faer Land, and I cannot see it as being in your favor."

"But currently?"

"Currently, no."

"So by the laws of Fair Play, which allows magical citizens to pursue those interests which are not circumvented by the law—"

"I see," Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed. "I suppose I'll be chatting with your Wizengamot pet in an hour? And your father after that?"

Draco smiled. "We understand each other. I suppose you'd better draft that policy as soon as you're able to."

Kingsley Shacklebolt gave him a long, wary look. "Get out of my office and do whatever it is you're so keen on doing."

Draco stood, smoothing his robes. "Pleasure, Mr. Shacklebolt."

Kingsley Shacklebolt didn't answer. He watched impassively as Draco Malfoy left. He was about to sent for Potter and Weasely when they appeared at his door.

"Did I just see Draco Malfoy walk out of that door?" asked Ron.

"You did," he responded evenly. "You know how I'm always telling you two that you play too fast and loose with the rules?"

"You usually tell us right before you ask us to play fast and loose with the rules," Harry answered with a grin.

"You know me well, Harry," replied Shacklebolt. "Now go nail that boy's ass to the floor."

.((0)).

Hermione performed a modified Point Me spell as soon as they apparated into the forest at Mabon. She didn't exactly remember the convoluted path to the place the dragon had arisen from, the place where she'd entered the Faer Land a second time. She and Tom both ran to the place—it wasn't far enough to warrant magic.

Alicia was waiting for them. Her advanced age seemed more of a strength than a weakness. It seemed to imply a wisdom that Hermione didn't remember in Alicia's Hogwart's self—and how _weird_ was it that she remembered an Alicia that she herself had never met?

"Hello," said Alicia. "I see Draco failed to concoct that potion on time. I'm sure that you nevertheless fear the worst, but you have nothing to fear on my account. I cannot break the Boundary. Only those descended from one of the Founders can break it."

"That, at least, is on our side," said Tom. "If you are telling the truth. Where is the rune?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," she told him, smiling.

"_Tell me_," he said, pointing his wand at her. Alicia grimaced a bit, but broke off his spell with a brush of her wand as if she was swatting his hand away.

"You're much better at that kind of thing as Lord Voldemort," said Alicia.

"Legilimens," he said, whipping his wand through the air and back like a fishing pole. He frowned. Alicia looked at him. She had not defended herself against his attack, and she was not retaliating. "I see," said Tom. "The old drop-your-memory-in-the Pensieve trick."

"Yes," admitted Alicia, smiling. "But which one?"

"Which Pensieve? But you must have memories of which—"

"Unless I dropped _those_ memories in another Pensieve. You see, Tom, I have more experience fighting you than you have of fighting me. That, at least, is on _my_ side."

"Ah," said Tom softly, as if he had just spotted the problem in an equation. He was studying her, no emotion at all visible on his face, and it struck Hermione that this had changed, too—Tom Riddle hadn't been entirely self-possessed as her other self knew him. Anger and sadness never showed, because they connoted weakness, but disgust, arrogance, even cruelty—those had found expression in his face. Now that Hermione saw him face someone other than herself, she understood that his time as an incubus had changed him profoundly.

He truly was detached, the kind of detachment that comes with power.

"Do you know, I am aware of my other life," he said after a long silence. Alicia was watching him warily. "I was—mistaken. Driven by—my emotions, a certain blinkered agenda. I did not learn what I might have… The other me, I mean." Something small and bright and green appeared in his sleeve—not the sleeve of his wand hand, but the other one. It was the snake that he'd created with his wand. It had never disappeared. "For instance, he never fully understood identity—an understanding of which opens an unparalleled number of magical doors."

Alicia had finally spotted the snake, which spiraled around his wrist. "I suppose that is one such door?"

"There are truths," said Tom ignoring her, "which are never eradicated. Destinies. Character. Love… as my greatest teacher often told me."

"Lord Voldemort didn't believe in love," said Alicia.

"Love is not God. It is not something that needs my belief, nor is it invisible to our perspective. My other self knew it, saw it, even as he denied its power. It gave him great pleasure to destroy it. It seemed to prove to him how weak it truly was."

Alicia laughed. "I suppose you'll tell me now that you believe in its power?"

"As I said, it does not need my belief. Only yours."

Hermione turned to Tom, and he turned to her and extended his hand, the snake extending towards her. "It will bite," he warned her. She nodded, still unsure what he was doing but knowing to follow. The snake sunk its fangs into Hermione's own wrist, but it didn't hurt at all. The snake was only smoke, green smoke before her eyes as she followed Tom, Alicia's frowning face the last thing she saw.

She stumbled when her feet confronted solid ground again. She righted herself and looked around a small room with mahogany walls. "Where are we?" she asked.

"Where Adrian Avery died."

Hermione looked down, recalling the one moment from Alicia's Pensieve that didn't adhere to her own recovered memories. Alicia over Adrian's prone body. "How do you know she kept it here?"

"I saw this place in her mind, when I used Legilimency. It is the focal point of her hatred for me. The annoyance she used to have is nothing compared to what she came to feel after she received the Pensieve—which you sent her." He looked at Hermione now. "What could you possibly have been thinking?"

"It wasn't me," she said softly. "But it's the only thing I did that I understand."

"What do you mean by that?"

Hermione shook her head. "What I think is useless. Let's just do what needs doing."

Tom gave her a long look which Hermione managed to ignore. She walked around the room, examining it. "If it is here, there'll bee something logical to the hiding place—likely arithmetical."

"You've changed."

Hermione looked up, surprised.

"You're more like you were—at first."

She sighed. "Of course I am. You no longer have any influence over me."

"I suppose so," he said.

"You even said you knew I wasn't—wasn't—Mione."

"No," he said. "You aren't."

She turned back to the wall she'd been inspecting. "There's a Jurgen sequence in here—four panels in the window, and these hooks—there are seven of them, and three doors, counting each of the closet doors—"

"And twenty three panels on the far wall," finished Tom.

"Twenty three is always the active part of the sequence."

Tom nodded and flicked his wand. The panels peeled off the wall like band-aids, one after another, still attached at one end and suddenly plastic. There seemed to be nothing inside. But Tom was still peering at it, as if he could sense something—perhaps a magical residue. She remembered he had been able to do that. It was funny, the more she remembered, the more she felt like herself. In understanding how she'd come to do what she had, Hermione understood how different she had turned out to be.

"It requires a donation," said Tom.

"What kind?" asked Hermione.

"Blood."

She sighed. "Pure blood, I suppose."

"Yes."

"Well, then—"

"It isn't a problem. Half my blood is pure."

"Yes, but—"

"Salazar Slytherin was obsessed with blood magic," said Tom. "I have practically memorized every book he wrote." He cut his palm with the edge of his wand and dribbled the blood into a cup he'd transfigured out of, as far as Hermione could tell, thin air. Then he made several passes with his wand, spit into the cup, and placed it to his lips. Hermione didn't conceal a look of disgust when he swallowed it. There was a small amount of blood left in the cup, which Tom dipped his finger into. Then he pressed it onto a spot on the wall.

The rune fell into his hands.

He regarded the rune with satisfaction for a moment. His ancestor's ashes were gathered under his hand. "We're almost there. Where are your bones?" he asked her.

.((0)).

Draco and Alicia Silversmith met in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Draco hadn't been there since Hermione made it Unprotectable. He was pretty sure his parents were determined to kill her regardless of whether or not she managed to open the boundary. Wards didn't matter any more. By the end of the day, everything would be finished in one way or another.

Draco came in from the Ministry to find his great aunt sitting in the middle of a loveseat. He nodded at her, heading over to the liquor cabinet. A Firewhisky seemed vital to him at this moment.

"Did you manage to make the potion at all or did you make it too late?" asked Alicia.

Ah, Firewhisky _was_ vital. "Potter and Weasely have been tracking our wand activity over the past few days. If they've gone into weeks we're really in trouble. They brought me and Rudolphus in before I could make the potion, and confiscated the materials."

"The best laid plans," said Alicia. Strangely, she didn't seem terribly disappointed. That usually meant that she'd smuggled another plan into the original one. "It's too late, now, of course.

Draco gave her a long stare over his tumbler. "You've seen him."

"I have."

"Merlin preserve us," he said softly. He drained his glass and filled it again. He coughed. "Is there anything we can do?"

"There is something I have kept from you for some time. It was a suspicion, but it has been confirmed."

Draco languidly draped his ankle across his knee. "Oh?"

"I cannot break the boundary."

"I was afraid of that," he admitted. "I think only Hermione can."

"Why do you say that?"

"The Blue King—this Faery King, told her in the Faer Land."

"In fact, she is not the only one."

"Oh, really?"

"Anyone descended from the Founders can break it. And the Malfoys--"

"Oh," said Draco. "So my father and I."

"You," said Alicia. "You are much more competent than he. A bit over-cautious, perhaps."

He scrutinized the empty space in front of him for a moment and then forced himself back into reality. "Where is it, then?"

"In France. I believe Tom figured out where it was. They probably have it now."

Draco paled. "Then—then—why? Why even tell me, if it isn't possible to do?"

Alicia smiled and opened her pale hand. She had a piece of cloth enclosed in it. "It isn't impossible. The rune is not in France in its entirety. There is a small piece, here. And that's all that is necessary. These are some of Salazar Slytherin's ashes."

Draco looked startled. "Oh."

Alicia watched him. "You are afraid."

He nodded. "The reason she wouldn't was because she didn't want to resurrect him."

"Who do you fear more? Lord Voldemort or Salazar Slytherin?"

He stared at the folded cloth in his hands. Then he nodded shortly. "I'll go to Netherhouse, then."

"Very good," said Alicia. "I knew I could count on you."

"You'll know by the end of the day, at any rate."

"Even if they are the ones to break the boundary, you can still resurrect Salazar Slytherin. And that will be in our favor."

"Are you sure?" he asked, although he didn't sound as skeptical as his question.

"I am _very_ sure, my darling nephew. Trust me. There is no need for you to be afraid."

.((0)).

Alicia was not near the boundary when Hermione and Tom returned to it, Tom holding a bag that contained the earthly remains of Mione Potter. Hermione took a deep breath as she faced the clearing. Her heart was thundering in her chest. It was in her hands, now. By the end of the day the Ministry might well fall. The Statute of Secrecy would no longer be viable. Almost every step she'd taken had been an ambiguous one, and she'd done terrible things. Now she was here she knew that this things had to be done. With the rune in between her hands, Hermione walked forwards.

Tom watched her. It was only as she passed through the barrier that he realized the significance of it. There was a brief, intense quiet, and then, with no warning at all, Hermione's figure blazed suddenly with silver light. She held the rune between her hands, above her head, the exact figure of the rune impossible to discern in the bright light. And then the rune dissolved into her hands. When the light faded, her hands were still bright, and silver. The boundary was hers, now, to use as she wished.

Perhaps it was better under her control.

Tom followed her into the Faer Land with the bones of his lover. The trees around them were golden, their leaves brief blazes of light. As he walked closer to them, the leaves scattered to the ground and the branches extended into each other until they formed a large gate.

Hermione stood before the gate, looking up at it. Softly, thoughtfully, she stepped up to it and opened it. "Here," she said, and turned to him. "I'll leave you, now."

Tom nodded. "Thank you," he said.

She shook her head, wordlessly, and stared at the ground. Her eyes were huge, consumed with a world of troubles he didn't know of, much of which he had probably caused. Suddenly, she seized him and brought his face down to hers. She kissed him, and then stared at him fiercely. "Be who I thought you were," she told him.

And then she left.

.((0)).

It would have been perfectly easy to gain admittance to Netherhouse. Alicia Silversmith might despise Bellonia Zabini, but his parents had always been friends with her. Almost any servant and certainly every house elf would recognize him and welcome him in.

Instead, he broke through the wards and went in under a disillusionment spell. He simply didn't feel like seeing anyone. He wanted to go right to Jebediah Prow's mirror and plant Slytherin's ashes into the changing ground of the Faer Land.

When he came to the hall, he stared at the mirror for a long time. He should have known. No one had ever been able to enter the Faer Land. He should have wondered why Hermione was able to go. More importantly, he should have wondered why he also was permitted.

Draco didn't want to do what he was about to do. He was afraid. It might make everything worse. But he found that he could not refrain from acting. He had to do something. So he walked down the hall towards the mirror, which even now was showing a world within it, full of gold-leafed trees and columns of light.

When he entered it his heart was beating—as it always had when he had gone into the Faer Land. Draco despised his own fear. He didn't want this world, he wanted the old one, it had all been a stupid mistake, following Alicia Silversmith. But he had, and he couldn't stop her, or Hermione, or anyone now. He kneeled on the shifting grass and scooped a handful of soil out of the ground. Then he unfolded the cloth and dropped the ashes into the ground.

As soon as the sparse black ashes hit the ground, a plume of darkness spiraled upwards from where they settled. The plume elongated and shaped itself into a man's figure, too quick and powerful a performance for Draco to avert his eyes. And then, before him, stood Salazar Slytherin.

He was tall—inhumanly tall, and his face did not seem human either. He took a deep breath and then looked around him at the shifting landscape. "How long has it been?" he asked. His voice was hypnotic and deep, and underground river of dark water. He looked at Draco, who wished he wouldn't.

"Years," Draco managed to say. "Hundreds on hundreds of years."

"You brought me here," said Salazar.

"Yes."

"Any yet it isn't you who broke the boundary."

Draco had nothing to say to this; he hadn't known until now that Hermione had been successful.

"That is your luck," whispered Salazar. "None but I may have that power." He watched Draco for a long time. His eyes and the set of his lips indicated some abstraction of amusement. "Do not worry. You will have your reward."

.((0)).

Tom stood with the gate behind him until the gate was no longer behind him. It was something else, something he couldn't see. He didn't look. Instead, he placed his burden on the ground and knelt beside it. The ground was still ground—it was brown, earth covered, even if there was no grass. There was a carpet of silverware over it now. Tom brushed it aside and placed his palm against the bare earth. It was cool, moist—like skin. The silverware shifted, curled and turned into pieces of paper.

He had been thinking of this place for nearly a decade. He had re-read Slytherin's works and discovered a subtext within them that spoke of the Faer Land, of the strange magic of that land. It was an altogether different thing than mundane magic. There were no words in Faer magic, and thus no method of codification. One did what one willed; one's will was the force behind one's magic in the Faer Land. Here in the Faer Land.

Here, kneeling beside the bones of his lover, who he'd last seen only moments before his death, who he'd seen pass into another world—here, he allowed himself a moment of triumph. From the unlikely place of ghosthood, he had managed to achieve what he most desired. His body hummed and he felt it for the first time, felt the magical energy within himself, provoked and streaming towards his wand hand. It bled through his hand into the ground, into the bedrock of the Faer Land—now a grainy sort of dirt, tan instead of brown, but still dirt.

And here it was, the change written into the Faer Land. The same thing, but different permutations of it. The perception of sameness, of categories, was a mistake. Here, two kinds of dirt were as different from each other as a star and a kite. Here, the difference between one grain and another was a source of power. He could feel his energy dissolve into the ground, and remembered that Salazar had told him this would happen.

Through the centuries, Salazar told him what how to listen to the land, the bedrock of magic, to exercise the axioms of mastery—will, direction, and instantiation. The rest would be up to him. But for now, it would suffice. And he had more particular instructions on resurrection.

The ground whispered to him for a while, and it shifted underneath his hands and he watched the changes and saw the way to cause them, and divined from the land what lay above, and understood what was most necessary to understand. Then he began.

He dug her a grave to make her live again. Originally, that was the purpose of a grave—to provide proper fertilization for a resurrection. All that exists in the mundane world is a shadow of the Faer Land. Salazar Slytherin had written this. All that Tom knew came from him. Only twelve of Rowena Ravenclaw's books had been left out in the Founder's Section, and none besides her autobiography told of the Faer Land.

A leaf curled from the mound of dirt over Hermione's bones. The leaf extended itself and was pushed higher by a stem. The stem became a branch; the branch a tree. A young, white-barked sapling with green leaves. The tree shook itself; its leaves all fell to the ground, and then its branches curled around it, the bark smoothing, the figure of the tree growing human, until Hermione was standing in front of him. The green leaves peeled themselves up from the ground and covered her naked form, sheathing her in green.

She blinked. Her eyes were golden. Somehow, it made all the difference in the world. Her eyes opened, and they were gold. Even though it was only a different color, the eyes looked infinitely different, even if they were like Hermione's. Something had been formed there, in the short and pressured time of the last of her life, that was entirely unlike Hermione's, until lately, more mundane life. They were more like a sister's eyes than a self's. It was her, really her, Mione, whose final decision had been to tell him her real name. Her eyes opened and closed, widened and then softened, looking at him for what seemed like a long, long time.

"Tom," she whispered.

He nodded, and stepped forwards, and touched her face, gingerly. "Mione."

Her expression was soft, and in disbelief at its own tenderness, as if its owner had been given an impossible gift. Which she had been given. "You brought me back, didn't you?"

He nodded, and her eyes flickered up to him. She smiled.

"The boundary is broken, isn't it?" she asked in half-wonder. She looked up at him. "You?" she asked.

"No," he replied, his voice husky. "You."

"Oh," she said, and then startled, distracted. She peered in front of her, right over Tom's shoulder. "Listen, Tom," she whispered. "Listen, I—well, it's hard to explain, but I'm about to disappear."

He grasped on to her, and she smiled.

"There's nothing you can do about it. But don't worry. I know his real name."

"Who?"

"The Blue King. There's a tithe to be paid." She smiled, cupped his face in her hand, and kissed him. "But we'll have out happy ending, I promise."

He regarded her with a look that was simultaneously tumultuous and inscrutable. It was an overwhelming look, on the verge of a dozen paths. "I've been waiting for you," he said.

"I waited for you, too," she replied.

"Did you?" he asked, his lips quirking. "Do you remember—death?"

She looked up at him, the corner of her mouth smiling, about to say something. Then, without warning, she vanished.

..((0))..

Harry and Ron went to the Silversmith Manse first. There was been no recorded wand activity here, but that was only because there was obviously a masking device on the house—which was suspicious in and of itself—masking spells had to be registered at the Ministry. And they knew Malfoy Manor had been rendered Unprotectable by Hermione. Ron didn't really know whether to be heartened by this or reminded that she had done it either prior to or after shagging Draco sodding Malfoy. The worst part of it was, when he'd first had his suspicions, he'd been perversely sure of being wrong, angry as he was. It was almost as if he expected by yelling at people and breaking things he would find out it wasn't true after all. And it had been in the middle of turning out to be true when he'd found out it barely mattered compared to what she'd done in a life he'd never known she had. Then Draco had said what he'd said under Veritaserum. Trust Malfoy to turn a moment under Veritaserum around like that. Ron was really hoping to be the one to get a hold of him.

Harry and Ron were passing through a graveyard on the way to the Mansion. Moonlight was streaming down. The night air was crisp and cool. The world felt empty and temporarily clear. They didn't realize it was a graveyard at first—most of the headstones were buried into the ground and there was no fence. It was tripping over one of the headstones that made Harry realize they were in a graveyard.

"Hey," he said, recovered half-way through the fall. "Should we be here?"

"What do you mean? We're already here, you've just tripped over a headstone. We can't take back disrespect to the dead by leaving."

"Yeah, but what if there's a Silversmith buried here? Do you think they'd set up some kind of warning if—"

"Wait—"

"I mean—"

"No, Harry. Seriously. Look." He took his friend by the shoulders and turned him fully around. In a corner of the graveyard, the mound over a grave was shivering—and expanding. Ron went closer to it, wand out.

"What do you reckon it is?"

"Dunno. Zombie? Vampire?"

"Don't you make zombies after they're already out of the ground?"

A hand burst from the dirt and grasped the ground, clawing at it. This was followed by a second hand. Shortly after, they had cleared away enough dirt for a head to emerge.

"Might be a vampire," said Ron. "Might have to contact the Department of Magical Creatures."

The figure, unbelievably, continued to pull itself out of his grave. He was definitely, undeniably alive. His flesh seemed to be in order, dirty as it was, and his hair and beard was blonde under the dirt. The figure coughed, and looked up. He seemed to seize upon Harry and Ron, who were standing in shock before him, interrupted in their task by his extraordinary presence. He made a gravelly sound, his throat clicking.

"What's that?" asked Ron.

"I am very wroth," muttered the man, who had extracted himself and lay himself down on the ground, on his back looking up at the sky. "Tis good to see the stars again."

"Um, no offense mate, but what exactly were you doing in the, um. Ground?"

The man opened his eyes, very blue and pale in his dirt-darkened face. "I am risen," he breathed.

"Right," said Harry. "You hear that? He's risen, Ron."

"Sure. Risen. Do you think this has anything to do with the noveau death eaters down the road?"

"Dunno."

Ron realized he was holding a half-full can of soda pop, and gave it to the man. "You look like you need a drink, mate."

"Aye," said the man, his voice still gravelly. "I do."

"What did you say your name was?"

The man swallowed the drink in satisfaction and then looked at the can in an almost bemused way. "They call me Arthur."

..((0))..

You can try the best you can. You can try to change the world. But that may not be good enough. As she walked, Hermione felt as if she was floating along a golden line. Tom was long past out of view, as was her other self. She was in the odd position of having done exactly what she set out to do. The road had ended. She was at her destination. She didn't know what to do. And she wasn't sure, at all, that she had done what was right. The choice between what was right, and what was easy—that wasn't the choice people found so difficult to make. More often, the choice laid in what option was right, and very often, it wasn't clearly so.

In front of her were sometimes trees and sometimes chairs and sometimes pedastles. Everything changed around her, and she couldn't even find any wonder with which to regard it. How had it happened—she'd been taken off another road and put onto this one. And now there was no getting back on the old road. Now, having accomplished what was necessary, she had time for regret—for a moment.

When she came back into the mundane forest, there were two figures waiting for her. She knew as soon as she saw them that something was wrong. She saw that Draco was one of the figures and realized dimly that Alicia Silversmith had not done playing her cards.

She had not expected one of them to be Salazar Slytherin, which was undoubtedly who the second figure was. He was tall, almost strangely tall. There was a look about his face like Tom's—a genetic stain, but his was impossibly angular and cruel, with huge, sleepy-lidded black eyes underneath thick, arching eyebrows. His forehead was high, and proud, his mouth fixed in a rigid line, his posture arrogant and imposing.

"Ah," he said. "It makes such sense, that the one who would try to replace me was born as I was."

Hermione tried as best she could to look at the man steadily. She couldn't get over the impossibility of seeing him, Salazar Slytherin, a Founder, absolutely in the flesh. "I have," she said softly.

"You have worked against my resurrection, is this true?"

"It is," she said, her voice strong.

He let out a breath of satisfaction. "Well, you've a spine, at least, unlike some of these. No excuses, two thousand years! A Statute of Secrecy, a limitation on our powers! The state of wizardry has degenerated badly. You will all need my help." He looked at Hermione again. "And you," he said, "will be dealt with." He nodded towards Draco.

"It's all right, I'll come," said Hermione hastily.

"Then come," he said, considering her. "It has been a long time. I would like to enjoy myself."

Hermione began to walk forward carefully, her wand pointed downwards. Towards her right foot. She looked Salazar Slytherin in the eyes, thought of the three D's in her head, and apparated wordlessly from the scene.

A stunned silence followed, and a moment later, Slytherin, too, apparated from the spot. In the aftermath of the second crack, Draco swore loudly.

.((0)).

In the Department of Mysteries, there is a door which always remains closed. Those who work there don't know of anyone's ever having opened it. It is said to contain the greatest power on earth. It is said of it, that you cannot contain it—but the door proves that you can, at least for a while. It is said of it, that you cannot control it—but for a long time, people have tried. It is said of it, that you cannot break it—but it can been broken, and that break resulted in another—the breaking apart of two worlds. For a while. It is a destructive force, capable to breaking that which breaks apart—the boundary between life and death, between one person and another, between two worlds. Love.


End file.
